THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A 
RENEGADE  POET 

AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

BY 
FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 


BOSTON 

THE  BALL  PUBLISHING  CO. 

1910 


INTRODUCTION 

Copyright  1910,  by 
THE  BALL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  A   Renegade  Poet  on  the  Poet    .     .     25 

11.  Paganism:    Old  and  New  .     .     .     .      17 

111.  THE    Way    OF    Imi'Uii  ection        ...      71 

I  \  .  \  \i  i  id. 's    Im  mortality 91 

\'.  Stray  Thoughts  om  Shi  mis    .     .     .   109 

VI.  Crashaw 129 

VII.  Ariinn    Di:   Verb 161 

VIII.  William    Erni  st   lln  ley     .     .     .     .175 

l\.  Pope ">' 

X.  The  Error  of  the  Extreme  Realists  201 

XI.     Bunyan    in    Tin:    Light   of    Modern 

Cunu  ism -II 

XII.    The   Prose  of  Poets 

1.  Sin    Philip  Sidney --'' 

.'.  Sn  \Kl  speare 240 

3.   Hi  n    .lossus 253 

1.  Goldsmith 266 

Mil.     Sartob    Re-Read 279 

XIV.     Don  Quixote ':'' 

XV.     Moestitiae   Encomium '99 

XVI.    Finis  Cobonat  Oris 309 


±104616 


INTRODUCTION 

In  a  London  hospital,  in  November, 
1907,  there  died  a  man  of  the  rarest  gen- 
ius, whom  sorrow  had  marked  for  her 
own  from  His  earliest  years.  His  work 
was  accomplished,  and  naught  remained 
for  him  in  life.  For  the  past  few  years 
he  had  intellectually  ceased  to  be,  and  the 
main  enduring  product  of  his  labors  had 
appeared  during  the  four  years  preceding 
1897. 

This  man  was  Francis  Thompson,  who, 
like  Lamb,  was  "  called  by  sorrow  and 
anguish  and  a  strange  desolation  of  hopes 
into  quietness,  and  a  soul  set  apart  and 
made  peculiar  to  God."  He  was  a  singer 
of  songs,  and  as  one  whom  Meredith  and 
Patmore  have  acknowledged  as  a  peer,  his 
work    is    worthy    of    more    than    passing 

7 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

note  —  above  all,  since  his  life  was  roman- 
tic, and  his  poetry,  nay,  even  his  name, 
was,  till  lately,  unknown  in  America. 
There  are  others  of  the  little  band  to 
which  he  belongs  whose  works  should  be 
more  familiar  to  us,  but  none  of  them, — 
not  even  Lionel  Johnson, —  has  the  fine 
poetic  madness  to  such  a  notable  degree  as 
Francis  Thompson.  His  life  will  interest 
us  in  many  respects,  especially  as  it  has 
many  points  of  resemblance  to  the  un- 
happy years  which  De  Quincey  has  pic- 
tured in  his  poignant  autobiography.  We 
may  say  that  both  men  had  sown  in  tears 
that  they  might  reap  in  triumph.  They 
expected  bread  and  they  were  given  a 
stone. 

Francis  Thompson  was  born  in  1860, 
and  was  the  son  of  a  physician  practising 
in  Manchester,  England.  His  parents, 
who  were  converted  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith  at  the  time  of  the  Oxford  move- 
ment, gave  their  son  a  good  education, 
sending  him  to  St.  Cuthbert's  College,  at 

8 


[NTRODU<   IION 

Ushaw,  near  Durham,  where  lie  spent  seven 
years.  From  Ushaw  he  was  sent  to  Owens 
College  in  his  native  city,  to  study  medi- 
cine, but  much  against  his  will.  Instead 
of  attending  medical  lectures,  he  spent  his 
whole  time  in  the  public  libraries,  follow- 
ing the  bent  of  his  own  desires.  I  lis 
father,  discovering  these  pursuits,  dis- 
owned him,  and  the  sorrow  of  neglected 
filial  duty  only  served  to  aggravate  the 
bodily  ailments  of  the  poet.  lie  fell  dan- 
gerouslj  ill  in  Manchester,  like  De  Quin- 
ce v.  When  he  was  sufficiently  recovered, 
he  made  his  way  with  difficulty  up  to  Lon- 
don, and  found,  as  the  other  writer  before 
him,  that  Oxford  Street  is  lacking  in  sym- 
pathy to  impecunious  would-be  litterateurs. 
His  little  stock  of  money  gradually  dwin- 
dled, and  as  he  was  too  delicate  for 
manual  labor,  when  he  could  not  obtain 
literary  employment,  he  sank  lower  and 
lower  into  the  mire.  lake  De  Quincey 
also    in    this    respect,   at    one    time    his   sole 

richer  consisted  in  two  books,-     a  copy  of 

9 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

^Eschylus  in  one  pocket  and  a  copy  of 
Blake  in  the  other.  Reduced  to  beggary, 
so  that  he  sold  pencils  in  the  street,  and 
performed  such  other  trifling  services  to 
gain  a  little  bread  as  the  law  allows  in 
its  toleration  of  mendicants,  one  touching 
incident  which  occurred  at  this  time  re- 
minds us  of  De  Quincey's  meeting  with 
Ann.  In  its  pictorial  suggestivenecs, 
some  of  us  may  think  the  story  as  Thomp- 
son tells  it  even  more  pathetic.  Let  us 
hear  it  in  the  author's  own  words: 

"  Forlorn,  and  faint,  and  stark, 
I  had  endured  through  watches  of  the  dark, 
The  abashless  inquisition  of  each  star, 
Yea,  was  the  outcast  mark 
Of  all  those  heavenly  passers'  scrutiny; 
Stood  bound  and  helplessly 
For  Time  to  shoot  his  barbed  minutes  at  me; 
Suffered  the  trampling  hoof  of  every  hour 
In  night's  slow-wheeled  car; 
Until  the  tardy  dawn  dragged  me  at  length 
From  under  those  dread  wheels;  and,  bled  of 
strength, 

10 


INTRODl  '<  TION 

I  waited  the  inevitable  last 

Then  there  came  past 

A   child;    like    thee,   a   spring-flower;   but   a 

flower 
Fallen   from  the  budded  coronal  of  Spring, 
And  through  the  city-streets  blown  withering. 
She  passed, —  O  brave,  sad,  lovingest,  tender 

thing! — 
And  of  her  own  sad  pittance  did  she  give, 
That  I  might  eat  and  live: 
Then  fled,  a  swift  and  trackless  fugitive." 

We  may  consider  this  as  a  gift  of  one 
child  to  another,  for,  as  a  friend  has  beau- 
tifully phrased  it,  "  Thompson's  was  a 
child-spirit  retained  to  the  end:  wander- 
ing perplexed  through  this  tangled  and 
bewildering  world:  looking  out  upon  it  all 
with  the  grave  and  solemn  wonder  of  a 
child."  Indeed  the  poet  once  expressed  a 
desire  that  after  death  he  might  be  sought 
in  the  nurseries  of  Heaven.  After  five 
years  of  terrible  privation,  in  which  he 
must  have  sounded  the  very  bass-string 
of  humility,  Thompson  fell  into  the  kind 

11 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

hands  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meynell,  and,  after 
he  had  received  medical  treatment,  was 
placed  with  the  Premonasterian  Fathers 
at  Storrington.  Here,  and  later  at  Craw- 
ley and  elsewhere,  Thompson  wrote  the 
whole  of  his  poetical  work.  He  fought 
long  and  bravely  for  many  years  against 
tuberculosis,  until  the  flame  of  his  life  be- 
gan to  flicker.  At  last,  however,  on  No- 
vember 2,  1907,  he  entered  the  hospital  of 
St.  John  and  St.  Elizabeth,  in  St.  John's 
Wood,  London,  and  there  he  passed  away 
quietly  at  dawn  on  November  the  thir- 
teenth, 

"  Fading  from  a  garden  to  a  grave, 
Passing  without  a  tear  into  the  stars." 

A  friend  has  written,  "  It  was  a  part  of 
him  to  die  in  the  month  of  the  dead.  His 
death  was  the  last  dissolving  harmony  in  a 
life  of  clashing  discords !  "  There  were  ele- 
ments in  his  character  which  were  the  air 
and  fire  and  dew  of  songs,  yet  no  genius 
had  so  sad  a  life, —  not  Keats,  not  Chat- 

12 


[NTRODl  CTION 

terton,  not  Poe, —  and  we  are  tempted  to 
echo  his  own  words,  written  in  retrospect, 
wt  felt  none  the  less  keenly: 

"  Ah  !  must  — 
Designer  infinite !  — 
Ah  !  must  thou  char  the  wood  ere  thou  canst 
limn  with  it?  " 

A  wanderer  alike  in  vision  and  in  life,  he 
had  climbed  his  Calvary,  and  his  peace 
was  made,  after  such  privations  as  would 
have  rendered  any  other  man  incapable  of 
literary  work,  if  indeed  they  had  not  de- 
prived him  of  his  reason. 

His  published  work  is  comprised  in  three 
slender  volumes  of  verse,  entitled  re- 
spectively "Poems,"  "New  Poems,"  ami 
"Sister  Songs";  a  large  body  of  uncol- 
lected prose  contributed  to  "  Merry  Eng- 
land," "The  Academy,"  "The  Athen- 
aeum," and  two  or  three  other  periodicals; 
an  essay  on  Shelley;  a  volume  of  ascetic 
practice  entitled  tk  Health  and  Holiness"; 
and     a     life     of     St.     Ignatius     Loyola. 

13 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Though  it  is  on  his  poetry  that  Thomp- 
son's fame  has  hitherto  rested,  he  has  also 
bequeathed  to  us  a  precious  legacy  of 
prose  which  the  world  will  not  willingly  let 
die.  That  admirable  treatise  on  ascet- 
icism, "  Health  and  Holiness,"  is  only  too 
little  known,  but  is  scarcely  inferior  in  its 
way  to  the  essay  on  "  Shelley,"  whose  re- 
cent posthumous  publication  in  the  Dublin 
Review  sent  that  worthy,  if  slightly  som- 
niferous, periodical  into  a  second  edition. 
Its  republication  both  in  England  and 
America  has  been  the  signal  for  a  simul- 
taneous burst  of  applause  from  all  quar- 
ters. Yet  Thompson  has  written  even 
more  worthy  prose  than  that.  Take,  for 
example,  the  marvellous  prose  poem, 
"  Moestitiae  Encomium,"  reprinted  for  the 
first  time  in  this  volume.  I  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  claiming  it  as  the  greatest  of  the 
three  poems  in  that  magnificent  suite, 
whose  other  two  members  are  De  Quincey's 
"  Levana "  and  James  Thomson's  "  A 
Lady   of  Sorrow."      "  Come,  therefore,   O 

14 


INTRODUCTION 

Sadness,  fair  and  f'roward  and  tender ;  wasp 
who  followest  the  fliers:  dolorous  coquette 
of  the  Abyss,  who  claspest  them  that  shun 
thee,  with  fierce  kisses  that  hiss  against 
their  tears;  wraith  of  the  mists  of  sighs; 
mermaid  of  the  flood  Cocytus,  of  the  waves 
which  are  salt  with  the  weeping  of  the 
generations ;  most  menacing  seductress, 
whose  harp  is  stringed  with  lamentations, 
whose  voice  is  fatal  with  disastrous  presci- 
ence ;  draw  me  down,  merge  me,  under  thy 
waters  of  wail !  " 

Such  a  cry  as  this  can  only  come  out  of 
the  depths,  but  the  depths  of  this  experi- 
ence are  the  depths  of  vision  and  life. 
"Sadness  the  king-maker!  morituri  te 
sal uf n nt!  ": — these  words  unconsciously 
sum  up  the  life  and  vision  of  a  great  poet, 
of  Francis  Thompson. 

The  child  in  him  saved  the  poet  from 
bitterness,  though  not  from  sorrow,  and, 
after  all,  life  seemed  a  wondrous  God- 
given  toy  bestowed  on  him  for  his  sport. 
Working  after  God's  pattern  he  made  an- 

15 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

other  toy  which  mirrored  the  first,  and  the 
deft  elfishness  of  his  prose  reveals  one  as- 
pect of  it. 

For  Francis  Thompson's  style  is  mar- 
vellously ductile.  He  tames  and  bends 
words  to  his  purpose  like  a  young  Mercury 
in  his  cradle  fashioning  a  lyre.  And  he  is 
so  sublimely  unconscious, —  a  god,  and  he 
knows  it  not. 

St.  Ignatius  would  have  loved  him  as  he 
loved  Pedro  de  Ribadeneira.  The  com- 
parison is  not  playful,  for  these  two  chil- 
dren who  never  grew  up  are  really  contem- 
porary in  more  than  a  fanciful  sense. 
Great  artists  and  great  saints  never  out- 
grow their  childhood,  for  their  simplicity 
is  too  disarming.  They  have  the  child's 
intuition  which  pierces  through  things, 
and  this  suffices  them.  Then,  too,  their 
mental  gestures  and  movements  have  all 
the  grace  and  charm  of  the  physical  move- 
ments of  an  unconscious  child.  It  is  given 
to  them  to  love  much,  and  to  have  sym- 
pathy for  one  another,  and  this  is  why  a 

16 


INTRODUCTION 

saint  can  wish  for  no  more  sympathetic 
biographer  than  a  poet  who  is  pure  of 
heart,  and  why  Francis  Thompson  has  in- 
terpreted so  sympathetically  the  life  of  St. 
Ignatius. 

Nowadays  the  biographer  is  supposed 
to  be  detached  from  his  subject.  This  is 
what  science  has  done  for  us.  We  learn 
much  from  the  literary  product,  but  we 
lose  sight  of  two  personalities,  that  of  the 
subject  and  that  of  the  biographer.  You 
cannot  be  detached  and  also  warm  the  im- 
agination of  your  readers.  But  such,  as 
I  say,  is  the  modern  materialistic  ideal  in 
this  era  of  laboratory  courses  in  English 
in  all  our  colleges. 

For  this  reason,  it  is  refreshing  to  stum- 
ble across  one  of  these  flcsh-and-blood 
mediffival  people  who  still  believe  in  the 
fairies,  ,uul  who  suppose  everyone  else  does 
too.  Such  a  man  is  Francis  Thompson, 
and  the  chief  impression  which  we  gather 
from  his  humorous  essays  in  prose  expres- 
sion  (I  use  the  word  humorous  in  a   Bor 

17 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

rovian  sense)  is  of  a  close  impact  of  im- 
aginative truth  on  reality.  In  this, 
Francis  Thompson  is  exceptional.  He  is 
in  the  modern  world,  but  not  of  it,  and  his 
fancy  leads  him  to  earlier  days  when  the 
world  was  still  young,  and  men  sought  the 
great  quests —  to  the  age  of  Columbus  and 
Bacon,  of  Ignatius  and  Teresa.  He  does 
not  care  to  live ;  he  only  cares  to  love,  and 
the  ideal  translated  into  action  bears  a 
noble  fruit.  There  is  a  gentle  childlike 
wistfulness  about  the  man  which  creeps 
into  our  hearts  as  we  read  his  prose,  and 
which  brings  him  very  near.  Watch  his 
elfish  eyes  as  he  pretends  to  scold  "  that  sad 
dog  of  a  Robert  Louis !  "  "  Is  there  no 
utility  in  pleasure,  pray  you,  when  it 
makes  a  man's  heart  the  better  for  it;  as 
do,  I  am  very  certain,  sun,  and  flowers, 
and  Stevensons?  They  are  medicinal,  or 
language  is  a  shelled  pea's-cod ! '! 

What  could  be  more  disarming  than  this 
gleeful  utterance  of  a  gleeful  child ! 
Truly   it   seems   as   if   Francis   Thompson 

18 


[NTRODUCTION 

musf  have  hidden  behind  Heaven's  big 
front  door  win n  Crashaw  and  Ilrrrick  and 
he  were  appointed  to  go  dancing  out 
through  life,  and  have  played  hide-and-go- 
seek  so  successfully  with  the  angels  that  it 
took  them  three  centuries  to  catch  him. 
Then  in  revenge  (as  if  angels  could  be  re- 
vengeful!), they  set  him  down  on  an  earth 
which  had  just  outgrown  its  childhood,  and 
which  was  fraught  with  budding  knowledge 
and  power. 

Poor  poet!  hi'  paid  for  his  trick  in  am- 
ple measure.  The  world  of  his  fellows 
had  grown  up  into  lads, —  cruel,  thought- 
less, superior  lad-,  who  had  no  sympathy 
for  this  baby  cradled  in  the  centuries. 
And  so  they  pinched  and  teased  him,  and 
when  he  sang,  at  first  they  did  not  listen. 
But  the  singer  had  the  courage  of  his  song, 
and  he  never  let  discouragement  choke  the 
glorious  voice  within  him.  When  he  sang 
the  burden  of  his  heart,  the  poetry  was 
poignant  in  its  beauty,  and  when  he 
laughed,  as  all  of  us  must  laugh  now  and 

19 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

then  just  to  show  that  we  are  still  babes, 
the  laugh  was  transmuted  by  his  wand  of 
fancy  into  a  permanent  and  perfect 
beauty,  the  beauty  of  young,  irresponsible, 
intuitive  prose. 

This  elfish  child  of  fancy  who  never 
grew  to  manhood  ever  grew  in  beauty. 
We  all  must  grow,  and  if  our  intellect  will 
not,  then  must  our  soul.  To  grow  in  soul 
is  to  grow  in  sympathy,  and  when  Francis 
Thompson  creeps  toward  mortals  to  cud- 
dle a  little  bit,  he  comes  very,  very  close. 
For,  being  a  poet  and  a  child,  he  gets  at 
the  heart  of  a  man,  and  if  he  tugs  a  little, 
why  'tis  a  gentle  thing!  After  all,  babies 
have  privileges,  and  their  eyes  see  much 
that  is  lost  to  grown-up  vision. 

Thompson  prattles  along  in  his  prose 
like  a  happy  child,  exuberant  and  fanciful. 
Now  and  then  he  has  long  chats  with  him- 
self, and  finds  that,  on  the  whole,  he  is 
good  company.  If  he  chats  much,  he  sings 
to  himself  more.  The  burden  of  his  song 
is  light,  for,  being   only   a   child,  he   has 

20 


INTRODUCTION 

no  responsibilities,  no  doctrines,  no  heavy 
sense  of  an  apostolic  mission.  lie  is  the 
unconscious  airy  singer,  the  skylark  who 

soars  to  heaven  in  a  lyric  rapture  of  ex- 
uberant irresponsibility.  In  the  volume  of 
"Poems,"  for  example,  we  find  the  series 
entitled  "  Love  in  Dian's  Lap,"  of  which 
Coventry  Patmore,  no  mean  critic,  has 
written  that  it  is  such  a  series  of  poems 
as  St.  John  of  the  Cross  might  have  ad- 
dressed to  St.  Teresa,  and  as  might  well 
have  filled  the  heart  of  Laura  witli  pride. 
They  resemble  Crashaw  when  at  his  best, 
not  only  in  their  religious  ecstasy,  but 
above  everything  in  all  the  daringly  fan- 
tastic imagery,  alternately  spontaneous 
and  studied,  which  we  find  in  the  earlier 
poet.  However,  the  artifice,  when  it  ex- 
ists, is  so  cleverly  concealed  that  at  firsl 
reading  we  should  hardly  suspect  Thomp- 
son's indebtedness. 

These  poems  well  exemplify  the  distinc- 
tive qualities,  good  and  bad.  of  the  poet's 
work.      On    the    one    hind    they    are    rather 

21 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

obscure,  abounding  in  conceits  and  ex- 
travagant metaphors,  but  on  the  other 
hand,  they  are  eminently  characterised  by 
a  wealth  of  imagination,  a  subtlety  of 
thought,  and  a  magic  of  language  to  which 
no  other  modern  poet  but  Shelley  has  been 
able  to  attain.  Indeed,  Thompson's  "  Ode 
to  the  Setting  Sun  "  may  be  ranked  with 
the  few  sublime  odes  of  the  language. 
Nay,  we  may  almost  say  the  same  of  "  The 
Hound  of  Heaven,"  which  carries  the 
same  appeal  to  its  audience  as  some  old 
"  Ecce  Homo." 

It  is  such  high  poetry  as  this  which 
makes  us  claim  Thompson  as  a  member 
of  the  great  Victorian  Pleiad:  Alfred 
Tennyson,  Robert  Browning,  Dante  Ga- 
briel Rossetti,  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne, 
Matthew  Arnold,  William  Morris  and 
Francis  Thompson  —  the  roll  is  now  com- 
plete. To  rank  these  poets  one  above  an- 
other would  savor  only  of  pretense.  But 
this,  surely,  may  be  said  of  the  last-named 
poet   and   his   work :   that  to  have   known 

22 


INTRODUCTION 

and    to    have    loved   him    is   one   of  those 
spiritual    gains   in   our   lives   which,   come 
what    may,    can    never    be    lost    entirely. 
Thompson    was    rather    a    soul,    a    breath, 
than  a  man.     It   is  the  mind  of  a  woman 
in  the  heart  of  a  child,  so  that  we  feel  for 
him  less  of  admiration  than  of  tenderness 
and  gratitude.     And  though  his  life  was 
comparatively    a    dream,    nevertheless,    it 
was,  as   I  la/lit  t  has   written  of  another,  a 
dream   of  infinity  and  eternity,  of  death, 
the  resurrection,  and  a  judgment  to  come. 
Francis  Thompson  has  done  the  world  an 
inestimable    good,    if    the    world    will    but 
recognise  it,  for  he  has  succeeded  in  reveal- 
ing vividly   in  all  things  the  Divine  Pres- 
ence   which    is    Beauty.     Truly   a   wonder 
was  wrought  through   the   humble   priest- 
hood of  this  poet  inspired  of  God, 

"  And  the  Word  was  made  flesh,  and  dwelt 
amongst  us." 

Edward  J.  O'Brien. 
March  Jh  1910. 


23 


A  RENEGADE  POET  ON  THE  POET 

y  T  I  US  an  ill  bird  that  fouls  its  own 
X  nest ;  and  I  trust  an  ill  poet  may 
have  leave  to  do  the  same  by  his.  As  an 
ex-singer,  I  still  have  a  benevolent  desire 
to  promote  the  multiplication  of  the  class 
from  which  I  have  retired ;  and  I  can  con- 
ceive no  more  assured  method  than  this 
of  abuse :  "  for  as  the  camomile,  the  more 
it  is  trodden  on,  the  faster  it  grows  — ". 
A  poet  is  one  who  endeavours  to  make 
the  worst  of  both  worlds.  For  he  is 
thought  seldom  to  make  provision  for 
himself  in  the  next  life,  and  'tis  odds  if 
he  gets  any  in  this.  The  world  will  have 
nothing  with  his  writings  because  they 
are  not  of  the  world :  nor  the  religious, 
because  they  are  not  of  religion.  He  is 
suspect  of  the  worldly,  because  of  his  un- 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

worldliness,  and  of  the  religious  for  the 
same  reason.  For  there  is  a  way  of  the 
world  in  religion,  no  less  than  in  irreligion. 
Nay,  though  he  should  frankly  cast  in 
his  lot  with  the  profane,  he  is  in  no  better 
case  with  them ;  for  he  alone  of  men, 
though  he  travel  to  the  Pit,  picks  up  no 
company  by  the  way ;  but  has  a  contriv- 
ance to  evade  Scripture,  and  find  out  a 
narrow  road  to  damnation.  Indeed,  if 
the  majority  of  men  go  to  the  nether 
abodes,  'tis  the  most  hopeful  argument  I 
know  of  his  salvation  ;  for  'tis  inconceiv- 
able he  should  ever  do  as  other  men. 

We  may  consider  the  nature  of  the  poet 
as  the  world  esteems  him,  as  his  admirers 
esteem  him,  and  as  he  esteems  himself. 
For  the  first,  'tis  easily  stated:  the  world 
esteems  him  a  fool.  In  support  of  this 
opinion  may  be  noted  the  general  asser- 
tion that  the  poet  is  born,  not  made,  which 
equally  holds  of  the  fool.  And  whereas 
some  do  none  the  less  'spend  no  small  dil- 
igence in  making  themselves  poets,  others 

26 


A   RENEGADE   POET  ON  THE  POET 

.spend  mi  less  diligence  and  capacity  in 
making  themselves  fools,  and  with  about 
equal  success.  Hut  it  is  to  be  considered 
that  port>  are  to  be  divided  into  major 
and  minor;  and  that  while  no  pains  can 
make  a  man  a  major  poet  who  is  not  such 
by  the  visitation  of  God,  Mr.  Traill  would 
have  it  that  men  may,  by  extraordinary 
care,  make  themselves  minor  poets,  whose 
number  he  has  computed  to  be,  at  this  pres- 
ent, fifty-two.  It  is  much  to  be  wished 
that  he  would  investigate  whether  one 
might,  with  like  zeal,  modulate  into  the 
minor  key  of  folly  as  of  poetry.  But 
whereas  the  discovery  of  fifty-two  minor 
poets  did  much  shock  the  general  mind, 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  it  would  be  quite 
otherwise  surprised  could  he  limit  to  fifty- 
two  our  minor  fools. 

But  the  world  can  find  other  good  cause 
for  doing  what  it  has  made  up  its  mind 
to  do  without  cause.  Poets  are  said  to 
be  women;  and  that  is  the  reason,  perhaps, 
why  the  same  writers  who  cry  down  poets 

27 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

as  women,  do  mostly  cry  down  women  as 
poets.     But  that  poets  are  women  I  can- 
not believe,  for  we  have  yet  heard  nothing 
of  poets'   rights:   from  which   it  is  mani- 
fest   that    poets    are    lamentably    behind 
women  in  tenacity  of  their  dues ;  who,  in- 
deed, hold   everything  that   is   their   own, 
except   their   tongues.     Nor   is   the   saga- 
cious world  without  yet  another  admirable 
reason  for  contemning  the  poet:  viz.,  that 
he  is  useless.     And  it  has  lately  received 
the     most     grateful     support     from     Mr. 
Robert    Louis    Stevenson;    from    which    I 
cannot  but  think  Ave  must  accuse  the  cark- 
insr   influences   of   Samoan   barons   and   la 
haute   politique   in   the   gilded   saloons   of 
South  Sea  diplomacy.     He  does  not  stick 
to    affirm   that   the    litterateur   in    general 
is  but  a  poor  devil  of  a  fellow,  who  lives 
to  please,   and   earns  his  bread  by   doing 
what  he  likes.     Let  this  mere  son  of  joy, 
says    Mr.    Stevenson,    sleek    down   his   fine 
airs  before  men   who   are   of  some   use   in 
the  world.     If  the  blood  of  the  Haggards 

28 


A   RENEGADE   POET  ON  THE   POET 

is  unapt  to  stir  in  this  quarrel,  'tis  no  con- 
cern  of  mine;  but  on  behalf  of  the  poet, 
here  lies  mv  gage,  and  I  will  maintain 
with  this  poor  gentlemanlike  body  that 
Mr.  Stevenson  aberrates  from  nice  accu- 
racy three  frit  down  in  his  throat.  If 
religion  be  useful,  so  is  poetry.  For 
poetry  is  the  teacher  of  beauty;  and  with- 
out beauty  men  would  soon  lose  the  con- 
ception of  a  God,  and  exchange  God  for 
the  devil:  as  indeed  happens  at  this  day 
among  many  savages,  where  the,  worships 
of  ugliness  and  the  devil  flourish  together. 
Whence  it  was,  doubtless,  that  poetry  and 
religion  were  of  old  so  united,  as  is  seen 
in  the  prophetic  books  of  the  Bible. 
Where  men  are  not  kept  in  mind  of  beauty, 
they  become  lower  than  the  beasts;  for 
a  dog,  I  will  maintain,  is  a  very  tolerable 
judge  of  beauty,  as  appears  from  the  fact 
that  any  liberally  educated  dog  does,  in 
a  general  way,  prefer  a  woman  to  a  man. 
Tin'  Instinct  of  men  is  against  this 
rene gado    of    a    Robert    Louis.     Though 

29 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Butler  justly  observes  that  all  men  love 
and  admire  clothes,  but  scorn  and  despise 
him  that  made  them,  'tis  of  tailors  that 
he  speaks.  A  modiste  is  held  in  as  fair 
a  reverence  as  any  tradesman ;  and  'tis 
evident  that  the  ground  of  the  difference 
is  because  a  modiste  has  some  connexion 
with  art  and  beauty,  but  a  tailor  only  with 
ugliness  and  utility.  There  is  no  utili- 
tarian but  will  class  a  soapmaker  as  a 
worthy  and  useful  member  of  the  com- 
munity ;  .yet  is  there  no  necessity  why  a 
man  should  use  soap.  Nay,  if  necessity 
be  any  criterion  of  usefulness,  (and  surely 
that  is  useful  which  is  necessary),  the  uni- 
versal practice  of  mankind  will  prove 
poetry  to  be  more  useful  than  soap ;  since 
there  is  no  recorded  age  in  which  men  did 
not  use  poetry,  but  for  some  odd  thousand 
years  the  world  got  on  very  tolerably  well 
without  soap.  Look  closely  into  the  mat- 
ter, and  there  are  no  people  really  useful 
to  a  man,  in  the  strict  utilitarian  sense, 
but  butchers  and  bakers,  for  they  feed  a 

30 


A  RENEGADE  POET  OX  THE   POl   1 

man;  builders,  for  they  house  a  man; 
women,  for  they  help  him  into  the  world; 
and  doctors  and  soldiers,  for  they  help  him 
out  of  it.  All  the  rest  is  luxury  and  super- 
fluity. I  will  uphold  that  it  is  not  neces- 
sary for  any  man  to  wear  clothes,  hut  it  is 
necessary  tor  many  men  to  read  poetry.1 
Lastly,  I  will  be  sworn  that  the  utilitarian 
has  no  reason  to  hold  a  pound  of  poetry 
less  useful  than  a  pound  of  candles,  for 
I  am  persuaded  that  he  does  not  know  the 
difference   hit  ween  them. 

Then,  too,  this  rogue  of  an  R.  L.  S., 
I  doubt  me,  (plague  on  him!  I  cannot 
get  him  out  of  my  head),  has  found  writ- 
ing   pretty    utilitarian-      to    himself;    and 

lit  may  be  said  by  t lie  shallow,  that  clothes  are 
necessarj  to  one  who  lives  in  England.  I  reply 
thai  no  man  has  any  righl  to  live  in  England,  or 
any  other  region  with  a  secondhand  sun  and  a  sky 

\ery  much  the  worse  lor  wear.  Were  it  not  for 
the  unnatural  and  degrading  habit  of  wearing 
clothes,  we  should  ill  live  in  climates  that  had 
bread  and  sun  gratis,  where  utility  was  useless, 
where  everyone  would  understand  poetry,  and  no 
one  the  British  matron. 

31 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

utility  begins  at  home,  I  take  it.  Does 
he  not  eat  and  drink  romances,  and  has 
he  not  dug  up  Heaven  knows  what  riches 
(the  adventurer!)  in  "Treasure  Island"? 
'Tis  sure  as  that,  if  the  fairy  Good  Luck 
have  been  invited  to  his  christening,  guineas 
drop  from  a  lawyer's  mouth  whenever  he 
opens  it.  And  as  for  usefulness  to  other 
men,  since  we  must  have  that  or  be  ignoble, 
it  seems  —  is  there  no  utility  in  pleasure, 
pray  you,  when  it  makes  a  man's  heart 
the  better  for  it ;  as  do,  I  am  very  certain, 
sun,  and  flowers,  and  Stevensons?  They 
are  medicinal,  or  language  is  a  shelled 
pea's-cod ! 

So  far  the  world,  which  cannot  find  that 
your  Poet  has  any  capital  beyond  the  large 
one  with  which  he  delights  to  spell  his 
name,  or  that  poetry  is  quoted  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.  Yet  there  are  who 
would  have  us  trust  the  public  for  over- 
seers of  poetry,  as  Mr.  Archer  would  for 
overseers  of  morality.  And  I  will  con- 
fess  the   public   to   be   a   natural   overseer 

32 


A   RENEGADE  POET  ON   THE    l'Ol    I 

of  both  poetry  and  morality,  for  'tis  most 
accustomed   to   overlook   them   both.     But 

at  the  hands  of  his  admirers  the  poet 
undergoes  "a  quick  immortal  change:'1 
he  is  the  sacred,  the  divine.  Nature 
clearly  provides  for  this,  as  appears  by 
her  somewhat  nice  attention  to  singers' 
names.  No  rligginson,  for  instance,  could 
ever  break  his  name's  invidious  bar:  he  is 
forewarned  from  poetry.  The  common 
tongue  of  fame  would  falter  over  —  "  In 
the  deathless  words  of  the  divine1  Higgin 
son."  Yet  something  the  child  of  song 
has  fallen  from  his  antique  estate,  even 
among  his  admirers.  'Tis  a  trite  observa- 
tion that  of  old  prophet  and  poet  were 
one,  but  'tis  a  dear  experience  that  nowa- 
days they  are  divided;  for  there  are  no 
profits  among  poets.  Whether  poet  and 
profit  God  ever  joined  together  I  know 
not,  but  'ti-  very  certain  that  man  has 
put  them  asunder.  Pindar,  the  sneer  vates 
of  the  horse  race,  would  in  these  time- 
find  but  one  half  of  his  functions  valuable; 

33 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

but  if  the  separation  of  them  have  not  im- 
proved the  breed  of  the  sporting  poet, 
we  may  indulge  a  just  patriotism  in  the 
excellence  to  which  it  has  brought  the 
sporting  prophet,  whom  I  take  to  be 
Pindar's  half-descendant.  He  is  indubit- 
ably a  votes,  and  in  the  sense  of  Horace's 
auri  sacra  fames,  he  may  surely  be  entitled 
saeer;  for  after  this  meaning  of  the  ad- 
jective, unlucky  backers  do  constantly 
sacrate  him  in  the  Saxon  vernacular.  It 
may  be  much  feared  that  the  severance 
between  poets  and  profits  is  grown  a  thing 
irreversible :  I  cannot  perceive  even  among 
their  admirers  any  disposition  to  make  of 
them  friends  with  the  mammon  of  ini- 
quity. There  is  a  pernicious  impression 
that  the  lightness  of  the  singer's  flight  is 
dependent  on  the  lightness  of  his  purse ; 
and  that  the  muse,  like  a  balloon,  in  order 
to  ascend  must  throw  out  ballast.  But 
indeed,  'tis  the  convinced  belief  of  man- 
kind that  to  make  a  poet  sing  you  must 
pinch   his  belly,   as   if  the  Almighty   had 

34 


A    HIAKOADE   POET  ON   Till',    lot.  I 

construqted  him  like  certain  rudimentarily 
vocal  dolls.  Thus  gunners  use  to  light 
their  <^un  at  the  breech,  to  bring  fire 
out  at  the  mouth;  and  schoolmasters  use 
in  cultivate  a  boy's  head,  by  diligent  ap- 
plication  to  the  other  extremity. 

Tor  the  poet's  opinion  of  the  poet,  'tis 
hard  to  be  come  at  :  since  regard  for  his 
modesty  prevents  him  from  expressing  it 
in  his  own  case,  and  in  the  case  of  his 
brother  poets,  his  regard  for  theirs.  Of 
the  latter,  indeed,  he  is  far  more  tender 
than  of  his  own  (as  our  neighbor's  reputa- 
tion should  be  dearer  to  us  than  ours), 
and  is  mosi  delicately  chary  of  wounding 
it  by  excessive  praise.  But  you  may  ar- 
rive at  some  surmise  by  observing  that 
in  the  former  case  no  estimate  appears 
to  him  excessive,  and  in  the  latter  no  esti- 
mate not  excessive.  This,  however,  is 
only  while  his  brother  poets  live;  for  in 
their  regard  he  is  like  other  men,  who  hold 
that  poets  are  as  Roman  emperors,  and 
only    become   gods   when    they   die.      "  Woe 

35 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

unto  you  when  all  men  speak  well  of  you," 
is  indeed  grown  most  applicable  to  poets 
at  this  present ;  for  when  that  comes  about, 
their  admirers  must  either  look  to  beweep 
their  death,  or  that  they  are  not  dead. 
For  my  part,  I  retired  from  the  profes- 
sion because  I  found  it  no  longer  possible 
to  read  my  poems  even  to  the  four  walls 
of  my  room,  on  account  of  the  singular 
effect.  My  landlord  complained  that  I 
endangered  the  safety  of  the  house,  for 
the  walls  gave  signs  of  yawning.  But 
the  less  poets  are  honored  by  the  world, 
the  more  they  honor  themselves.  The}' 
have  ceased,  'tis  very  notable,  to  invoke 
the  muses  at  the  head  of  their  poems ;  for 
'tis  hard  if  a  good  modern  poet  may  not 
inspire  himself  without  calling  in  a  muse. 
He  thinks  it  enough  indignity  that  he 
cannot  lie  in  of  a  volume,  but  he  must 
press  some  publisher  to  act  as  midwife: 
nor  will  the  world  be  contrived  to  his  lik- 
ing till  he  can  inspire,  publish,  and  criti- 
cise himself. 

36 


A  RENEGADE  POET  OX  THE   POET 

For  the  rest,  though  he  most  usually 
conceits  himself  a  greal  artist,  he  by  no 
means  accounts  himself  "divine"  or 
••  sacred,"  or  reckons  himself  by  any  of 
the  overweening  epithets  which  his  indis- 
creet belauders  are  accustomed  to  bestow 
on  him.  Indeed,  you  shall  no  more  per- 
suade a  poet  that  his  kind  are  prophets, 
than  a  woman  that  hers  are  angels.  She 
will  indeed  very  readily  believe  that  she 
is  an  angel ;  and  if  it  shall  please  any  one 
to  tell  me  that  /  am  a  prophet,  I  will  not 
have  so  ill  manners  as  to  return  him  the 
lie.  Though  indeed  I  know  not  but  in 
some  sort  the  poet  may  have  the  forehand 
of  the  prophet;  for  the  prophet  foretells 
only  what  he  knows,  hut  the  poet  what 
he  does  not  know.  And  as  'tis  the  more 
blessed  way  to  believe  and  not  see,  than 
to  believe  and  see;  I  perceive  no  good 
reason  but  it  may  be  the  more  blessed  way 
to  prophesy  and  not  foresee,  than  to 
prophesy  and  foresee. 

Did  we  give  in  t<>  that  sad  dog  of  a 
S7 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Robert  Louis,  we  must  needs  set  down  the 
poor  useless  poet  as  a  son  of  joy.  But 
the  title  were  an  irony  more  mordant  than 
the  title  of  the  hapless  ones  to  whom  it 
likens  him.  Filles  dc  joie?  O  rather 
files  d'amertume!  And  if  the  pleasure 
they  so  mournfully  purvey  were  lofty  and 
purging  as  it  is  abysmal  and  corrupting, 
then  would  Mr.  Stevenson's  parallel  be 
just;  but  then,  too,  from  ignoble  victims 
they  would  become  noble  ministrants. 
'Tis  a  difference  which  vitiates  the  whole 
comparison,  O  careless  player  with  the 
toys  of  the  gods !  whom  we  have  taken, 
I  warrant  me,  more  gravely  than  you 
take  your  whimsical  self  in  this  odd  pleas- 
antry !  Like  his  sad  sisters,  but  with 
that  transfiguring  distinction,  this  poet, 
this  son  of  bitterness,  sows  in  sorrow  that 
men  may  reap  in  joy.  He  serves  his 
pleasure,  say  you,  R.  L.  S.?  'Tis  a 
strange  pleasure,  if  so  it  be.  He  loves 
his  art?  No,  his  art  loves  him;  cleaves 
to  him  when  she  has  become  unwelcome,  a 

38 


A   RENEGADE  POET  UN  THE  POET 

\.i\  weariness  of  the  flesh.  He  is  the 
sorry  sport  of  a  mischievous  convention. 
The  traditions  of  his  craft,  fortified  by 
the  unreasonable  and  misguiding  lessons 
of  those  sages  who  have  ever  instructed 
the  poet  in  the  things  that  make  for  his 
better  misery,  persuade  him  that  he  can 
be  no  true  singer  without  he  slight  the 
world.  Wordsworth  has  taught  him  a 
most  unnecessary  apprehension  lest  the 
world  should  be  too  much  with  him;  which, 
to  be  sure,  was  very  singular  in  Words- 
worth, who  never  had  the  world  with  him 
till  he  was  come  near  to  going  out  of  it. 
The  poor  fool,  therefore,  devotes  assiduous 
.  practice  to  acquiring  an  art  which  comes 
least  natural  to  him  of  all  men;  and  after 
employing  a  world  of  pains  to  scorn  the 
world,  is  strangely  huffed  that  it  should 
return  the  compliment  in  kind.  There  is 
left  him  no  better  remedy  but,  having 
spent  his  youth  in  alienating  its  opinion, 
to  spend  his  manhood  in  learning  to  des- 
pite its  opinion.     And  though  it  be  a  hard 

39 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

matter  to  contemn  the  world,  'tis  a  yet 
harder  matter  to  contemn  its  contempt.  I 
regard  the  villainous  misleaders  of  poets 
who  have  preached  up  these  doctrines  as 
all  one  for  selfish  cruelty  with  those  who 
maintained  the  tradition  for  operatic 
eunuchs ;  and  would  have  them  equally 
suppressed  by  Christian  sentiment.  For 
they  have  procured  the  severance  of  the 
one  from  his  kind  to  gratify  their  under- 
standing, as  of  the  other  to  gratify  their 
ear. 

But  this  is  to  be  serious,  and  I  should 
apologise  for  being  so  much  out  of  the 
fashion  as  to  take  poetry  seriously ;  which 
no  one  now  does  —  not  even  poets.  'Tis, 
indeed,  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished,  that  your  modern  poet  would  take 
himself  less  seriously  and  poetry  more  so. 
If  he  would  not  be  so  inflexibly  grave  over 
that  new-fangled  style  of  "  artist,"  which 
to  his  great  English  predecessors  would 
have  suggested  only  hogs'  bristles  and 
paint-pots !     I   know    not   why   he   should 

40 


A  RENEGADE  POET  ON  THE   l'OET 

hanker  after  the  paint-pots  of  the  Eg}  p 
tianSj  and  arrogate  a  title-  which  gives 
color  to  calling  him  useless.  The  only 
utility  ever  alleged  for  the  artist  was  the 
fostering  of  religion.  To  what  that 
function  has  come  may  lie  seen  in  our 
churches;  where  the  keenest  denouncer  <>f 
Papistry  could  not  snuff  idolatry  in  the 
kneeler  before  such  images.  Since  though 
one  should  adore  them,  he  would  not  trans- 
gress the  First  Commandment;  for  they 
are  like  nothing  that  is  in  heaven  above, 
or  in  the  earth  beneath,  or  in  the  waters 
Under  the  earth. 

Odd's  my  life !  I  perceive  I  have  clean 
forgot  the  most  important  aspect  of  my 
theme,  which  is  the  poet  as  the  critic 
him.  'Tis  briefly  remedied.  There  are 
two  kinds  of  critics:  the  first  see  nothing  in 
him,  and  the  second  themselves.  The  lat- 
ter is  by  far  the  more  fashionable  mode 
nowadays:  the  judicious  critic  (to  speak 
by  figure)  uses  polished  poetry  to  reflect 
to    readers    his    own    countenance.      I    am 

41 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

myself  indifferently  skilled  in  this  way, 
though  I  have  strangely  neglected  it  in 
the  present  article ;  and,  therefore,  I  am 
minded  to  let  the  reader  know  that  I  in- 
tend shortly  to  publish  my  autobiography, 
under  the  title  "  Reminiscences  of  Savage 
Landor."  As  I  never  saw  Landor  once, 
there  is  no  danger  that  he  will  unduly 
interfere  with  the  public's  natural  interest 
in  me.  This  I  think  fit  to  acquaint  the 
reader  with,  lest  he  should  fall  into  an 
ill  opinion  of  my  genius,  and  unhappily 
conceive  me  destitute  of  modern  literary 
gifts,  when  he  discerns  that  I  have  written 
with  a  design  to  exhibit  not  my  own  great- 
ness, but  the  poet's.  I  am  sensible  that 
by  such  a  method  I  shall  justly  undergo 
the  censure  of  the  present  age  as  a  critic 
of  very  little  understanding.  For  'tis  a 
principle  universally  conceded,  that,  since 
the  work  of  a  great  author  is  said  to  be 
a  monument,  your  true  critic,  like  your 
true  Briton,  does  best  evince  his  taste  and 
sense    by    cutting    his    own    name    on    it. 

42 


A   RENEGADE  POET  ON  THE   POET 

'Tis  ;t  procedure  so  accredited  that  across 
even   the  titulv/m   of  Golgotha  a  German 

scrawls  "  Johann  Strauss,'"  halt'  hiding 
the  Name  of  names;  Chrisl  finds  an 
English  Archdeacon  more  merciless  than 
I  h  rod,  for  after  being  exhibited  to  the 
Jews  clothed  in  a  fool's  garment,  he  is 
exhibited  to  the  English  clothed  with  a 
fool;  and  adds  to  the  carrying  of  the 
Cross  the  carrying  of  Renan.  'Tis  a  re- 
versal worthy  to  be  ranked  as  a  later  Pas- 
sion that  He  should  hear  among  the  Forty 
the  same  animal  which  once  bore  Him 
among  the  Twelve.  But  indeed,  this  man- 
ner of  criticism  and  biography  is  the  only 
one  in  scientific  accord  with  the  philosophy 
of  the  age.  For  modern  philosophy,  like 
Mi-.  Oscar  Wilde,  has  discovered  that  the 
easiest  and  most  surprising  way  to  make 
a  new  coat,  is  to  turn  an  old  coat  inside 
out ;  and  const  ructs  its  dogma  as  Mr.  Wilde 
('tis  the  observation  of  an  acute  critic) 
constructs  his  epigrams,  by  reversing  the 
platitudes  and  truisms  of  former  teaching. 

43 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Thus,  'tis  its  first  dogma  that  there  is  no 
dogma ;  its  first  precept,  that  every  man 
has  an  obligation  to  believe  that  he  has 
no  obligation  to  belief;  with  many  more 
such  Wildish  paradoxes.  Not  the  least 
pretty  of  these  is  that  which  touches  the 
first  source  of  all  worship,  and  'tis  ob- 
tained by  a  simple  reversal  of  the  saying 
in  Genesis :  —  Man  made  God  to  his  own 
linage  and  likeness.  Now  'twould  argue 
a  lamentable  lack  of  modernity  if  your 
true  critic  should  not  remember  the  an- 
thropomorphic origin  of  worship  in  his 
devotion  to  illustrious  authors,  and  plainly 
instruct  the  reader  by  his  language  that 
he  adores  in  Keats  or  Shelley  what 
Narcissus  did  in  the  stream.  Angelica 
Kaufmann,  studying  the  practice  of  so 
many  famous  painters,  to  search  out  the 
one  countenance  which  seemed  to  them 
the  supreme  type  of  beauty  and  paint  all 
their  faces  from  it,  excellently  discovered 
both  her  sex  and  her  thoughts  by  paint- 
ing all  her  faces  after  her  own:  and  the 

44 


A   RENEGADE   POET  ON  THE  POET 

greal  critica  arc  much  beholden  to  her 
example.2  They  have  contrived  a  method 
to  hand  themselves  down  to  posterity 
through  the  gods  of  literature,  as  did  the 
Roman  emperors  through  the  gods  of 
Olympus  —  by  taking  the  head  off  their 
statues,  and  clapping  on  their  own  in  its 
stead. 

Yet,  though  I  admit  the  soundness  of 
the  principle,  and  do  devoutly  hold  to  its 
practice,  I  have  at  times  a  strange  hack- 
sliding  from  modernity,  an  odd  diseased 
kind  of  taste;  which  finds  more  comely  and 
more  reviving  a  life  of  Christ  in  which 
"  Luke  "  or  "  John  "  appears  only  at  top 
of  the  page,  than  one  in  which  Ernest 
plays  the  part  of  a  Gallic  Judas,  who 
should  lend  the  Master  a  supper-room, 
and  charge  a  franc  a  head  for  tout  Paris 

•  I  have  seen  this  asserted,  but  take  it  for  a  libel 
on  poor  Angelica.  The  face  which  pervades  her 
pictures  i>  the  conventional  pseudo-Greek  face 
which  pervades  all  the  would-be  "  ideal  "  painting 
of  her  day. 

45 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

to  peep  at  Him  through  the  keyhole. 
'Tis  partly,  I  take  it,  a  passing  access  of 
this  humor  which  has  perverted  me 
throughout  such  a  masterpiece  of  litera- 
ture as  the  present,  to  retire  myself  in  the 
background  with  so  obtrusive  a  modesty. 
Yet  when  I  think  on  it,  I  lie ;  for  though 
I  have  kept  indifferent  well  to  my  subject, 
'tis  chiefly  written  to  display  my  own  wit. 
Now  I  have  heard  that  every  reader  finds 
in  a  book  exactly  what  he  brings  with  him 
to  the  reading.  And  since  I  am  satisfied 
that  the  reader  brings  to  the  considera- 
tion of  this  article  an  infinite  deal  of  wit, 
I  can  be  under  no  apprehension  of  what 
he  will  discover  in   it. 


46 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND  NEW 

"  So  died  the  old;  here  comes  the  new: 
Regard  him;  —  a  familiar  face!" 

— Tennyson. 

HOW  define  new  paganism?  Most 
modern  beliefs  are  easily  defined. 
Agnosticism  is  the  everlasting  perhaps. 
An  Atheist  is  a  man  who  believes  himself 
an  accident.  Morality  (modern)  is  the 
art  of  defining  your  principles  to  oppose 
your  practice.  Immorality  (again  mod- 
ern)—well,  it  was  excellently  defined  by 
Pope  as 

A  monster  of  such  frightful  mien 
As,  to  be  hated,  needs  hut  to  be  seen." 

That  is  to  say,  nobody  minds  it,  if  it  be 
only  kepi  out  of  sight.  Hut  a  definition 
of  V  w   Paganism  is  vet  to  seek. 

17 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

That  men  who  find  Christianity  too  hard 
of  belief  should  come  to  believe  in  Pagan- 
ism,  sounds,  I  know,  like  an  absurdity. 
But  nothing  is  so  incalculable  as  the  cred- 
ulity of  incredulity.  Nevertheless  it  is 
not  Paganism  pure  and  simple  which  these 
men  would  restore.  Rather  it  is  the  habit 
of  mind,  the  sentiment,  the  ethos  of  Pagan- 
ism. If  my  view  be  correct,  they  would 
use  the  old  "  properties  "  of  Paganism  to 
deck  out  their  own  material  nature-wor- 
ship. Venus  would  thus  become  what  Ten- 
nyson has  so  eloquently  described  Lucre- 
tius as  holding  her  to  be.  Ceres  and 
Bacchus  would  become  representative  of 
the  bounty  and  lustihood  of  Nature.  The 
staid  and  severe  would  have  their  Pallas, 
and  render  homage  to  natural  wisdom  and 
self-control.  Meanwhile  all  this  would  be 
in  nowise  novel,  but  indeed  a  revival  of 
Paganism, —  of  a  phase,  and  a  late  phase, 
of  Paganism.  There  are  cycles  in  thought 
as  in  the  heavens ;  and  old  views  in  time 
become  new  views. 

48 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   M.U 

Here  is  a  natural  religion  obviously  cap- 
able of  accommodating  itself  to  widely 
different  natures  by  reason  of  its  entire 
flexibility.  But  though  in  this  way  mis- 
chievously catholic  as  atheism,  it  can,  un- 
like atheism,  surround  itself  with  the  pres- 
tige of  a  gnat  past  —  though  a  dead 
pasl  ;  of  a  poetry  —  though  a  dead  poetry  : 
of  a  sculpture  —  though  a  dead  sculpture; 
of  an  art  —  which  is  not  dead.  And  it 
ciii  proclaim  that,  with  the  revival  of  dead 
Paganism,  these  other  dead  things  too 
shall  live.  It  is  with  this  aesthetic  aspect 
of  New  Paganism  that  I  wish  to  deal.1 

One  of  its  chief  recommendations  to  in- 
tellectual    minds     is     the     often-eulogised 
heauty   of   Paganism.      The  old  gods,  say 
its  advocates,  were  warm  with  human  life, 
and   akin   to  human   sympathy:   beautiful 

i  I  oughl  here,  properly,  to  discuss  the  chances 
of  pagan  principles  ever  becoming  more  than  the 
craze  of  a  cliaue  in  England.    But  space  forbids. 

Suffice  it   to  say   thai    then-   is   a   "  niiliis,"   and    the 
disease-genus  are  abroad. 

I!' 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

gods  whose  names  were  poetry.  Then  the 
daily  gracefulness  of  pagan  life  and  re- 
ligion !  The  ceremonial  pageants,  with 
the  fluent  grace  of  their  processional  maid- 
ens, as  they 

".  .  .  .     shook   a   most   divine   dance 
from  their  feet/'2 

or  the  solemn  chastity  of  their  vestal  vir- 
gins; the  symmetry  of  their  temples  with 
their  effigies  of  benignant  powers ;  the 
street,  adorned  with  noble  statuary,  in- 
vested with  a  crystal  air,  and  bright  with 
its  moving  throng  in  garments  of  unla- 
bored elegance;  and  the  theatre  unroofed 
to  the  smokeless  sky,  where  an  audience, 
-in  which  the  merest  cobbler  had  some  vis- 
ion beyond  his  last,  heard  in  the  language 
of  /Eschylus  or  Sophocles  the  ancestral 
legends  of  its  native  land. 

With  all  this,  the  advocates  I  speak  of 
contrast  the  condition  of  to-day.  The 
cold   formalities   of  an   outworn   worship; 

2  Chapman,  "  Odyssey." 

50 


PAGANISM:  OLD   AND    NEW 

our  tie  phis  ultra  of  pageantry,  a  Lord 
Mayor's  Show ;  the  dryadless  woods  re- 
garded chiefly  as  potential  timber;  the 
grimy  street,  the  grimy  air,  the  disfigur- 
ing statues,  the  Stygian  crowd;  the  tem- 
ple to  the  reigning  goddess  Gelasma, 
which  mocks  the  name  of  theatre;  last  and 
worst,  the  fatal  degradation  of  popular 
perception,  which  has  gazed  so  long  on 
ugliness  that  it  takes  her  to  its  bosom.  In 
our  capitals  the  very  heavens  have  lost 
their  innocence.  Aurora  may  rise  over 
our  cities,  but  she  has  forgotten  how7  to 
blush. 

And  those  who,  like  the  present  writer, 
head  as  on  thorns  amidst  the  sordidncss 
and  ugliness  —  the  ugly  sordidncss  and  the 
Sordid  ugliness  —  the  dull  materiality  and 
weariness  of  this  unhonored  old  age  of  the 
world, —  cannot  but  sympathise  with  these 
feelings, —  nay,  even  look  back  with  a  cer- 
tain passionate  regrel  to  the  beauty  which 
invested  at  least  the  outward  life  of  those 
days.      Hut   in  truth  with  this  outward  life 

51 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

the  vesture  of  beauty  ceases :  the  rest  is  a 
day-dream,  lovely  it  is  true,  but  none  the 
less  a  dream.  Heathenism  is  lovely  be- 
cause it  is  dead.  To  read  Keats  is  to  grow 
in  love  with  Paganism ;  but  it  is  the  pagan- 
ism of  Keats.  Pagan  Paganism  was  not 
poetical. 

Literally,  this  assertion  is  untenable. 
Almost  every  religion  becomes  a  centre 
of  poetry.  But  if  not  absolutely  true, 
it  is  at  least  true  with  relation  to  Chris- 
tianity. The  poetry  of  Paganism  is 
chiefly  a  modern  creation ;  in  the  hands  of 
the  pagans  themselves  it  was  not  even  de- 
veloped to  its  full  capabilities.  The  gods 
of  Homer  are  braggarts  and  gluttons ;  and 
the  gods  of  Virgil  are  cold  and  unreal. 
The  kiss  of  Dian  was  a  frigid  kiss  till  it 
glowed  in  the  fancy  of  the  barbarian 
Fletcher:  there  was  little  halo  around 
Latmos'  top,  till  it  was  thrown  around  it 
by  the  modern  Keats.  No  pagan  eye  ever 
visioned  the  nymphs  of  Shelley.3     In  truth 

3  I    have   here   implicitly   assumed   a   distinction 

52 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   NEW 

there  was  around  the  Olympian  heaven  no 
such  halo  and  native  air  of  poetry  as,  for 
Christian  singers,  clothed  the  Christian 
heaven.  To  the  heathen  mind  its  divini- 
ties were  graceful,  handsome,  noble  gods; 
powerful,  and  therefore  to  be  propitiated 
with  worship;  cold  in  their  sublime  selfish 
ness,  and  therefore  unlovable.  No  pagan 
ever  loved  his  god.  Love  he  might,  per- 
haps, some  humble  rustic  or  domestic 
deity, —  but  no  Olympian.  Whereas,  in 
the  Christian  religion,  the  Madonna,  and 
a  greater  than  the  Madonna,  were  at  once 
high  enough  for  worship  and  low  enough 
for  love.  Now,  without  love  no  poetry 
can  be  beautiful;  for  all  beautiful  poetry 
(•nines  from  the  heart.  With  love  it  was 
that  Wordsworth  and  Shelley  purchased 
the  right  to  sing  sweetly  of  nature.  Bleats 
wrote  lovingly  of  his  pagan  hierarchy,  be- 

which  I  should  rather  explicitly  have  formulated, 
between  the  poetry  lurking  in  the  pagan  myths 
and  tlic  poetical  ideas  associated  with  them  by  the 
pagans  themselves. 

53 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

cause  what  he  wrote  about  he  loved. 
Hence  for  no  antique  poet  was  it  possible 
to  make,  or  even  conceive,  a  pagan  Para- 
dise. We,  who  love  the  gods,  do  not  wor- 
ship them.  The  ancients,  who  worshipped 
the  gods,  did  not  love  them.  Whence  is 
this? 

Coleridge,  in  those  beautiful  but  hack- 
neyed lines  from  "  Wallenstein,"  has  given 
us  his  explanation.  It  is  time,  yet  only 
half  the  truth.  For  in  very  deed  that 
beautiful  mythology  has  a  beauty  beyond 
anything  it  ever  possessed  in  its  worshipped 
days ;  and  that  beauty  came  to  it  in  dower 
when  it  gave  its  hand  to  Christianity. 
Christianity  it  was  that  stripped  the  weeds 
from  that  garden  of  Paganism,  broke  its 
statue  of  Priapus,  and  delivered  it  smiling 
and  fair  to  the  nations  for  their  pleasure- 
ground.  She  found  Mars  the  type  of 
brute  violence,  and  made  of  him  the  god 
of  valor.  She  took  Venus,  and  made  of 
her  the  type  of  Beauty, —  Beauty,  which 

54 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   NEW 

the  average  heat  hen  hardly  knew.  There 
is  no  more  striking  instance  of  the  poetis- 
ing influence  exerted  on  the  ancient  myth- 
ology by  Christianity  than  the  contrast 
between  the  ancient  and  modern  views  of 
I  his  goddess.  Any  school-boy  will  tell  you 
that  she  was  the  goddess  of  love  and 
beauty.  "Goddess  of  Love"  is  true  only 
in  the  lowest  sense,  but  "  Goddess  of 
Beauty  "  ?  It  exhibits  an  essentially 
modern  attitude  towards  Venus,  and  would 
be  hard  to  support  from  the  ancient  poets. 
No  doubt  there  are  passages  in  which  she 
is  styled  the  beautiful  goddess;  but  the 
phrases  are  scarcely  to  my  point.  If, 
reader,  in  the  early  days  of  the  second 
Empire,  you  came  across  a  writer  who  de- 
scribed the  Empress  Eugenie  as  "the  beau- 
tiful Empress,"  you  would  hardly  be  fair 
in  deducing  from  iluit  his  devotion  to  her 
as  the  Empress  of  Beauty.  No;  when 
Heine,  addressing  the  Venus  of  Melos, 
called    her    "Our    Lady    of   Beauty,"   the 

55 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

idea,  no  less  than  the  expression,  was  cen- 
trally modern.  I  will  go  further.  It  was 
centrally  Christian. 

To  the  average  pagan,  Venus  was  sim- 
ply the  personification  of  the  generative 
principle  in  nature ;  and  her  offspring  was 
Cupid  —  Desire,  Eros  —  sexual  passion. 
Far  other  is  she  to  the  modern.  To  him 
she  is  the  Principle  of  Earthly  Beauty, 
who  being  of  necessity  entirely  pure,  walks 
naked  and  is  not  ashamed,  garmented  in 
the  light  of  her  unchanging  whiteness. 
This  worship  of  Beauty  in  the  abstract,  this 
conception  of  the  Lady  Beauty  as  an  all- 
amiable  power,  to  register  the  least  glance 
of  whose  eye,  to  catch  the  least  trail  of 
whose  locks  were  worth  the  devotion  of  a 
life, —  all  this  is  characteristic  of  the  Chris- 
tian and  Gothic  poet,  unknown  to  the  pa- 
gan poet.  No  antique  singer  ever  saw 
Sibylla  Palmifera;  no  antique  artist's 
hand    ever    shook    in    her    pursuit.4      The 

4  Philosophers   and   "dreaming   Platonists,"   per- 
haps, had  sealed  her  craggy  heights  after  their  own 

56 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND  NEW 

sculptors,  I  suspect,  had  known  something 
of  Sibylla,  in  the  elder  days,  before  Praxi- 
teles made  of  tlir  Queen  of  Beauty  merely 
the  Queen  of  Fair  Women.  The  Venus 
of  Melos  remains  to  hint  so  much.  But, 
besides  that  Greek  sculpture  is  virtually 
dead  and  unrrvivahle  in  civilized  lands,  I 
do  not  purpose  in  this  narrow  space  to  deal 
with  subjects  so  wide  as  Sculpture  or  Art. 
Suffice  it  if  I  can  suggest  a  few  of  the 
irreparable  losses  to  Poetry  which  would 
result  from  the  supersession  of  the  Chris- 
tian by  the  Pagan  spirit. 

If  there  are  two  things  on  which  the 
larger  portion  of  our  finest  modern  verse 
may  be  said  to  hinge,  they  are  surely  Na- 
ture and  Love.  Yet  it  would  be  the  meresl 
platitude  to  say  that  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other,  as  glorified  by  our  great  modern 
poets,   was   known    to   the   singers   of   old. 

manner,  !>nt  none  will  pretend  thai  Platonic  dreams 

Of  the  "First    and   Only    Fair"   were   the  offspring 

of  Paganism,    Rather  were  they  a  contravention  of 

it. 

57 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Their  insensibility  to  landscape  was  ac- 
companied and  perhaps  conditioned  by  an 
insensibility  to  all  the  subtler  and  more 
spiritual  qualities  of  beauty ;  so  that  it 
would  hardly  be  more  than  a  pardonable 
exaggeration  to  call  Christianity  (in  so 
far  as  it  has  influenced  the  arts)  the  re- 
ligion of  beauty,  and  Paganism  the  reli- 
gion of  form  and  sense.  Perhaps  it  is 
incorrect  to  say  that  the  ancients  were  in- 
different to  landscape:  rather  they  were 
indifferent  to  Nature.  Cicero  luxuriates 
in  his  "  country,"  Horace  in  his  Soracte 
and  fitful  glimpses  of  scenery ;  but  both 
merely  as  factors  in  the  composition  of 
enjo}rment;  the  bees,  the  doves  of  Virgil 
are  mere  ministers  to  luxury  and  sleep. 
"  The  fool,"  says  Blake  in  a  most  preg- 
nant aphorism,  "  The  fool  sees  not  the 
same  tree  as  a  wise  man  sees."  And  as- 
suredly no  heathen  ever  saw  the  same  tree 
as  Wordsworth.  For  it  is  a  noteworthy 
fact  that  the  intellect  of  man  seems  unable 
to  seize  the  divine  beauty  of  Nature,  until 

58 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   NEW 

moving  bejond  that  outward  beauty  it 
gazes  on  the  spirit  of  Nature;  even  as  the 
mind  seems  unable  to  appreciate  the  beau- 
tiful face  of*  woman  until  it  lias  learned 
to  appreciate  the  more  beautiful  beauty  of 
her  soul.  That  Paganism  had  no  real 
sense  of  the  exquisite  in  female  features  is 
evident  from  its  statues  and  few  extanf 
paintings:  mere  regularity  of  form  is  all 
it  sees.  Or  again,  compare  the  ancient 
erotic  poets,  delighting  in  the  figure  and 
bodily  charms  of  their  mistresses,  with  the 
modern  love-poets,  whose  first  care  is  to 
dwell  on  the  heavenly  breathings  of  their 
ladies'  faces.  Significant  is  it,  from  this 
point  of  view,  that  the  very  word  in  favor- 
ite use  among  the  Latin  poets  to  express 
beauty  should  be  "  form<i"  form,  grace 
of  body  and  line.  When  Catullus  pro- 
nounces on  the  charms  of  a  rival  to  his  mis- 
tress,  he  never  even  mentions  her  face. 
"Candida,  longa,  recta;"  that  is  all: 
"  She   is    fair,    tall,   straight." 

But    the    most    surprising    indication    of 
59 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

this   blindness   to   the    subtler  qualities    of 
beauty   is  the   indifference   of  the   ancient 
singers  to   what  in   our   estimation   is  the 
most    lovely    and    important    feature    in 
woman  —  the  eye.     This   may  have   some 
connection    with   their    apparent    deadness 
to   color.     But   so   it  is.     In   all  Catullus 
there  is  only  a  single  indirect  allusion  to 
the  color  of  Lesbia's  eyes.     There  is,  to 
the  best  of  my  recollection,  no  such  allu- 
sion at  all  throughout  Tibullus,  Proper- 
tius,    or   Ovid.     This    one    fact    reveals    a 
desert  of  arid  feeling  in  the  old  erotic  poets 
which    a    modern    imagination    refuses    to 
traverse.     In  the  name  of  all  the  Muses, 
what   treason    against   Love    and   Beauty ! 
Why,  from  the  poetical  Spring  of  Chaucer 
to    the    Indian-Summer    of    Mr.    William 
Morris,   their   ladies'    eyes   have   been   the 
cynosure  of  modern  love-poets ! 

"  Debonair,  good,  glad,  and  sad," 

are  the  admirably  chosen  words  in   which 
Chaucer  describes  his  Duchess'  eyes ;  and 

60 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   NEW 

this  is  the  beautiful  passage  in  which  Mr. 
Morris  sets  his  lady's  eyes  before  us: 

"Her  great  eyes,  standing   far   apart, 
Draw  up  some  memory  from  her  heart, 
And  gaze  out  very  mournfully; 

Beata  una   Domina!  — 
So  beautiful  and  kind  they  are, 
But  most  times   looking  out   afar, 
Waiting  for  something,  not   for  me. 

Beata   mea    domina  !  " 

The  value  which  Mr.  Morris'  master,  Ros- 
setti,  had  for  this  feature  in  feminine  at- 
traction is  conspicuous.  Witness  his 
Blessed  Damozel,  whose 

'  Eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even." 

In  his  mistress'  portrait  he  notes 

'  The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  forget.'' 

Tennyson  has  his 

'  Eyes   not  down-dropt  nor   over-bright,   but 

fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity." 

61 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

And  almost  all  his  heroines  have  their  char- 
acteristic eyes :  the  Gardener's  Daughter, 
violet;  Amy,  of  Locksley  Hall,  hazel, 

"  All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark 
of  hazel  eyes ;  " 

Enid,  meek  blue  eyes,  and  so  on. 

Wordsworth,  again,  notes  his  wife's 

"  Eyes  like  stars  of  twilight  fair;  " 

and  has  many  a  beautiful  passage  on  fe- 
male eyes.  Shelley  overflows  with  such 
passages,  showing  splendid  poAver  in  con- 
veying the  idea  of  depth:  the  following  is 
a  random  example ; 

" deep  her  eyes  as  are 

Two  openings  of  unfathomable  night 
Seen  through  a  tempest's  cloven  roof." 

Will  anyone  forget  the  eyes  of  the  dream- 
ing Christabel? 

'  Both  blue   eyes  more  bright  than   clear, 
Each   about   to   have   a   tear." 


62 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   M.W 

One  could  multiply  instances;  but  take 
as  a  last  one  those  magnificent  eyes  of 
De  Quincey's  Mater  Suspiriarum;  "Her 
eyes  were  filled  with  perishing  dreams,  and 
\\  recks  of  forgotten  delirium." 

Again,  what  a  magnificent  means  of 
characterisation  —  especially  in  personifi- 
cation—  do  our  poets  make  of  the  eye. 
Could  anything  be  more  felicitous  than  Col- 
lins' Pity 

"  With  eyes  of  dewy  light?  " 

And  equally  marvellous  is  Shelley's  epithet 
for  sleep ; 

'  Thy   sweet  child  sleep,  the  filmy-eyed." 

Yet  all  this  superfluity  of  poetic  beauty 
remained  a  sealed  fountain  for  the  pagan 
poets!  After  such  a  revelation  it  can  ex- 
cite little  surprise  that,  compared  with 
Christian  writers,  they  lay  little  stress  on 
the  grace  of  female  hair. 

But,  after  all,  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  love-poetry  is  Love.     Now  Love  is  the 

63 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

last  thing  any  scholar  will  look  for  in  an- 
cient erotic  poetry.5  Body  differs  not 
more  from  soul  than  the  Amor  of  Catul- 
lus or  Ovid  from  the  Love  of  Dante  or 
Shelley ;  6  and  the  root  of  this  difference 
is  the  root  of  the  whole  difference  between 
this  class  of  poetry  in  antique  and  con- 
temporary periods.  The  rite  of  marriage 
was  to  the  pagan  the  goal  and  attainment 
of  Love  —  Love,  which  he  regarded  as  a 
transitory  and  perishable  passion,  born  of 
the  body  and  decaying  with  the  body.  On 
the  wings  of  Christianity  came  the  great 

5  It  will  not  do  to  say  that  this  was  solely  owing 
to  the  impossibility  of  what  we  call  courtship  in- 
heathen  society;  and  that  heathen  love  was  post- 
nuptial. It  is  sufficiently  apparent  from  Martial's 
allusions  that  the  married  poems  of  Sulpicia,  styled 
and  considered  "chaste"  because  addressed  to  her 
husband,  would  have  justly  incurred  among  us  the 
reproach  of  licentiousness  in  treatment. 

G  An  Anti-Christian  in  ethics.  But  the  blood  in 
the  veins  of  his  Muse  was  Christian.  The  spirit  of 
his  treatment  of  Love  is  —  with  few,  if  any,  excep- 
tions—  entirely  Christian. 

6i 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND  NEW 

truth  that  Love  is  of  the  soul,  and  with 
the  soul  coeval.  It  was  most  just  and 
natural  that  from  the  Christian  poets 
should  come  the  full  development  of  this 
truth.  To  Dante  and  the  followers  of 
Dante  we  must  go  for  its  ripe  announce- 
ment. Not  in  marriage,  they  proclaim,  is 
the  fulfilment  of  Love,  though  its  earthly 
and  temporal  fulfilment  may  be  therein ; 
for  how  can  Love,  which  is  the  desire  of 
soul  for  soul,  attain  satisfaction  in  the  con- 
junction of  body  with  body?  Poor,  in- 
deed, if  this  were  all  the  promise  which 
Love  unfolded  to  us  —  the  encountering 
light  of  two  flames  from  within  their  close- 
shut  lanterns.  Therefore  sings  Dante, 
and  sing  all  noble  poets  after  him,  that 
Love  in  this  world  is  a  pilgrim  and  a  wan- 
derer, journeying  to  the  New  Jerusalem: 
not  here  is  the  consummation  of  his  yearn- 
ings, in  that  mere  knocking  at  the  gates 
of  union  which  we  christen  marriage,  but 
beyond  the  pillars  of  death  and  the  corri- 

65 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

dors  of  the  grave,  in  the  union  of  spirit 
to  spirit  within  the  containing  Spirit  of 
God. 

The  distance  between  Catullus  and  the 
"  Vita  Nuova,"  between  Ovid  and  the 
"  House  of  Life,"  can  be  measured  only 
by  Christianity.  And  the  lover  of  poetry 
owes  a  double  gratitude  to  his  Creator, 
Who,  not  content  with  giving  us  salvation 
on  the  cross,  gave  us  also,  at  the  Marriage 
in  Cana  of  Galilee,  Love.  For  there  Love 
was  consecrated,  and  declared  the  child  of 
Jehovah,  not  of  Jove ;  there  virtually  was 
inaugurated  the  whole  successive  order  of 
those  love-poets  who  have  shown  the  world 
that  passion,  in  putting  on  chastity,  put 
on  also  ten-fold  beauty.  For  purity  is 
the  sum  of  all  loveliness,  as  whiteness  is  the 
sum  of  all  colors. 

And  here  the  exigencies  of  space  com- 
pel me  to  draw  to  a  close.  Else  I  would 
gladly  have  treated  many  points  which  I 
must  perforce  neglect.  In  particular,  I 
would   have    made    a    detailed    comparison 

66 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND   NEW 

between  the  treatment  of  the  pagan  Olym- 
pus by  the  ancients,  and  by  the  moderns 

with  Keats  at  their  head,  in  order  to  dem- 
onstrate what  I  have  in  these  pages  merely 
advanced.  One  point,  however,  I  must 
briefly  notice. 

This  is  the  false  idea  that  a  modern 
Paganism  could  perpetuate,  from  a  purely 
artistic  sense,  the  beauty  proper  to  Chris- 
tian literature:  that  it  is  possible  for  the 
imaginative  worker,  like  the  conspirator  in 
Massinger,  to  paint  and  perfume  with  the 
illusion  of  life  a  corpse.  For  refutation, 
witness  the  failure  of  our  English  painters, 
with  all  their  art,  to  paint  a  Madonna 
which  can  hang  beside  the  simplest  old 
Florentine  Virgin  without  exhibiting  the 
absence  of  the  ancient  religions  feelinff.7 
And  what  has  befallen  the  loveliness  of 
Catholicity  would- — in  a  few  generation-, 

7  Uossetti  is  perhaps  an  exception.  But  he  bad 
the  Catholic  blood  in  his  reins,  and  could  not  es- 
cape from  it.  His  head  might  deny,  but  his  heart 
worshipped. 

67 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

when  Christianity  had  faded  out  of  the 
blood  of  men  —  befall  the  loveliness  of 
Christianity. 

Bring  back  then,  I  say,  in  conclusion, 
even  the  best  age  of  Paganism,  and  you 
smite  beauty  on  the  cheek.  But  you  can- 
not bring  back  the  best  age  of  Paganism, 
the  age  when  Paganism  was  a  faith.  None 
will  again  behold  Apollo  in  the  forefront 
of  the  morning,  or  see  Aphrodite  in  the 
upper  air  loose  the  long  lustre  of  her  gol- 
den locks.  But  you  may  bring  back  — 
dii  avertant  omen  —  the  Paganism  of  the 
days  of  Pliny,  and  Statius,  and  Juvenal ; 
of  much  philosophy  and  little  belief;  of 
superb  villas  and  superb  taste ;  of  ban- 
quets for  the  palate  in  the  shape  of  cook- 
ery, and  banquets  for  the  eye  in  the  shape 
of  art ;  of  poetry  singing  dead  songs  on 
dead  themes  with  the  most  polished  and 
artistic  vocalisation ;  of  everything  most 
polished,  from  the  manners  to  the  marble 
floors ;  of  vice  carefully  drained  out  of 
sight,     and     large     fountains     of    Virtue 

68 


PAGANISM:  OLD  AND  NEW 

springing  in  the  open  air;  —  in  one  word. 
a    most    shining    Paganism     indeed  —  as 

putrescence  also   shines. 

This  Paganism  it  is  which  already  stoops 
on  Paris,8  and  wheels  in  shadowy  menace 
over  England.  Bring  back  this  —  and 
make  of  poetry  a  dancing-girl,  and  of  art 
a  pandar.  This  is  the  Paganism  which  is 
formidable,  and  not  the  antique  lamp 
whose  feeding  oil  is  spent,  whose  light  has 
not  outlasted  the  damps  of  its  long  sepul- 
ture. She  who  created  Zeus  and  Here, 
Phoebus  and  Artemis,  Pallas  Athene  and 
the    fair-haired    Aphrodite,    is    dead,    and 

s  Paris,  it  may  be  said,  is  not  scrupulous  as  to 
draining  her  vice  underground.  But  it  is  kept  un- 
derground exactly  to  the  same  extent  as  vice  was 
in  the  Plinian  days.  Private  vice  is  winked  at 
with  a  decorous  platitude  about  "The  sanctity  of 
private  life."  If  evil  literature  is  openly  written, 
what  Roman  or  Italian  of  Pliny's  (the  younger) 
day  thought  anything  of  writing  "facetiae?"  If 
indecent  pictures  are  displayed  in  the  windows, 
what,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  photography  had 
flourished  under  Rome,  would  have  been  the  state 
of  the  shop-windows  ot  Pompeii? 

69 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

lives  only  in  her  corruption ;  nor  have  we 
lost  by  her  death  one  scintillation  of 
beauty.  For  the  poetry  of  Paganism 
(with  reference  to  England)  was  born  in 
the  days  of  Elizabeth,  and  entered  on  its 
inheritance  in  the  days  of  Keats.  But 
could  Paganism  indeed  grow  supple  in  her 
cere-cloths,  and  open  her  tarnished  eyes  to 
the  light  of  our  modern  sun  —  in  that 
same  hour  the  poetry  of  Paganism  would 
sicken  and  fall  to  decay.  For  pagan 
Paganism  was  not  poetical. 


70 


THE  WAY  OF  IMPERFECTION 

OVID,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Catullus,  is  the  most  modern-minded 
of  Latin  poets.  It  is  therefore  with 
delight  that  we  first  encounter  his  dictum, 
so  essentially  modern,  so  opposed  to  the 
aesthetic  feeling  of  the  ancient  world, 
decentiorem  esse  faciem  in  qua  aliqiris 
ncetms  csset.  It  was  a  dictum  borne  out 
In  his  own  practice,  a  practice  at  heart 
essentially  romantic  rather  than  classic; 
and  there  can  therefore  be  little  wonder 
that  the  saving  was  scouted  by  his  con- 
temporaries  as  an  eccentricity  of  genius. 
The  dominant  cult  of  classicism  was  the 
worship  of  perfection,  and  the  Goth  was 
its  iconoclast.  Then  at  length  literature 
reposed  in  the  beneficent  and  quickening 
shadow  of  imperfection,  which  gave  us 
for   consummate   product    Shakespeare,   in 

71 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

whom  greatness  and  imperfection  reached 
their   height.      Since   him,   however,   there 
has   been   a   gradual   decline   from   imper- 
fection.    Milton,     at     his     most     typical, 
was    far    too    perfect;    Pope    was    ruined 
by    his    quest    for    the    quality ;    and    if 
Dryden    partially     escaped,     it     was     be- 
cause   of   the    rich    faultiness    with    which 
Nature    had    endowed    him.     The     stand 
made  by  the  poets  of  the  early  part  of  this 
century   was  only  temporarily  successful ; 
and  now,  we  suppose,  no  thoughtful  per- 
son   can    contemplate    without    alarm    the 
hold    which    the    renascent    principle    has 
gained  over  the  contemporary  mind.     Un- 
less some  voice  be  raised  in  timely  protest, 
we    feel   that   English    art    (in    its    widest 
sense)  must  soon  dwindle  to  the  extinction 
of  unendurable  excellence. 

The  elementary  truth  of  Ovid's  maxim 
it  is  scarcely  requisite  to  uphold.  We  have 
yet  to  see  the  perfect  faces  that  are  one 
half  so  attractive  as  the  imperfect  faces. 
Can  any  reader  tolerate  the  novelistic  her- 

72 


THE  WAY  Or   [MPERFECTION 

oinc  with  the  Greek  features  and  the  ex- 
quisitely chiselled  nose?  The  hero  invaria- 
bly marries  her  instead  of  the  other  young 
lady  (whose  nose  is  perhaps  a  trifle  r£- 
trousse),  in  every  respect  more  charming, 
who  misses  him  simply  through  lack  of 
this  essentia]  note  of  a  heroine. 

Would,  however,  that  the  thing  stopped 
here.  This  vicious  taste  for  perfection  is 
the  fruitful  parent  of  unnumbered  evils. 
It  is  difficult  to  calculate  the  ravages 
caused  by  the  insane  passion.  We  will  say 
this  —  that  a  man  who  once  indulges  in  it 
never  knows  where  he  may  end.  At  first, 
perhaps,  he  will  content  himself  with  spir- 
itual perfection;  but  the  fatal  craving, 
once  established,  demands  continually  fresh 
gratification.  He  presently  begins  to  find 
fault  with  Nature,  and  to  desire  an  unim- 
peachably  artistic  house;  insensibly  he 
forms  an  addiction  to  the  sonnet,  and 
thence  glides  into  the  research  of  orbed 
perfection  in  his  jokes;  by  degrees  he  even 
comes  to  admire  the  paintings  of  M.  Bou- 

73 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

guereau,  and  so  to  the  final  abomination  of 
the  camellia  and  the  double  dahlia.  We 
would  not  be  thought  to  denounce  ex  ca- 
thedra the  wish  for  religious  perfection. 
Abstractly  it  is  harmless  enough ;  but  we 
should  be  careful  how  we  allow  ourselves 
even  these  innocent  gratifications, —  they 
are  often  the  first  step  on  a  course  of  un- 
conscious declension  which  we  shall  regret 
all  our  after-lives.  It  is  this  which  some- 
times causes  secular  poets  after  a  time  to 
write  distinctly  inferior  religious  verse ; 
under  the  impression,  apparently,  that  sec- 
ular poetry  is  an  error  of  youth  which  must 
be  expiated  in  maturity,  and  that  only  by 
direct  consecration  to  religion  can  their 
art  give  glory  to  God.  As  if  the  flower 
could  not  give  glory  to  God,  until  it  ab- 
negated its  fragrance;  as  if  the  clouds  of 
sunset  could  not  give  glory  to  God,  until 
they  had  been  passed  through  a  bleaching- 
vat ;  as  if  the  bird  could  not  give  glory 
to  God,  until  it  selected  its  airs  from  the 

74 


THE  WAY   OF   IMPERFECTION 

diocesan  hymnal !  Over  the  whole  contem- 
porary mind  is  the  trail  of  this  serpent  per- 
fection. It  even  affects  the  realm  of  color, 
where  it  begets  cloying,  enervating  har- 
monies, destitute  of  those  stimulating  con- 
trasts by  which  the  great  colorists  threw 
into  relief  the  general  agreement  of  their 
hues.  It  leads  in  poetry  to  the  love  of 
miniature  finish,  and  that  in  turn  (because 
minute  finish  is  most  completely  attainable 
in  short  poems)  leads  to  the  tyranny  of 
sonnet,  ballade,  rondeau,  triolet,  and  their 
kin.  The  principle  leads  again  to  aesthet- 
icism  ;  which  is  simply  the  aspiration  for  a 
hot-house  seclusion  of  beauty  in  a  world 
which  Nature  has  tempered  by  bracing 
gusts  of  ugliness.  And  yet  again,  by  a 
peculiar  refinement  of  perversity,  it  leads 
to  the  desire  for  perfect  wives ;  though 
wherefore  a  man  should  desire  a  perfect 
wife  it  is  indeed  difficult  to  perceive.  Why, 
lie  has  to  live  with  her!  Now  docs  any- 
one seriously  long  to  companion  a  "  Trea- 

75 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

tise  on  Spiritual  Perfection "  bound  in 
cloth  —  with  the  additional  privilege  of 
paying  for  the  rebinding? 

Returning  to  literature,  however,  let  us 
consider  more  particularly  the  iniquity  of 
this  cult  in  generating  the  hero  and  hero- 
ine ;  who  spring  merely  from  the  ambition 
to  draw  perfect  characters  —  an  ambition 
fatal  to  life-like  rendering.  The  most 
nobly  conceived  character  in  assuming 
vralsemblance  takes  up  a  certain  quantity 
of  imperfection ;  it  is  its  water  of  crys- 
tallisation :  expel  this,  and  far  from  secur- 
ing, as  the  artist  fondly  deems,  a  more  per- 
fect crystal,  the  character  falls  to  powder. 
We  by  no  means  desire  those  improbable 
incongruities  which,  frequent  enough  in 
actual  life,  should  in  art  be  confined  to 
comedy.  But  even  incongruities  may  find 
their  place  in  serious  art,  if  they  be  artistic 
incongruities,  not  too  glaring  or  sugges- 
tive of  unlikelihood ;  incongruities  which 
are  felt  by  the  reader  to  have  a  whimsical 
hidden  keeping  with  the  congruitics  of  the 

76 


THE  WAY  OF  IMPER]  E(  TION 

character,  which  enhance  the  consent  of 
the  genera]  qualities  by  an  artistically  mod- 
ulated dissent;  which  just  lend,  and  no 
more  than  lend,  the  ratifying  seal  of  Na 
hire  to  the  dominating  regularities  of  char- 
acterisation. From  the  neglect  of  all  this 
have  come  the  hero  and  heroine;  and  of 
these  two  the  heroine  is  the  worse.  In 
most  cases  she  is  not  a  woman  at  all,  but 
a  male  dream  of  a  woman. 

Among  all  prevalent  types  of  heroine, 
the  worst  is  one  apparently  founded  on 
Pope's  famous  dictum, 

"  Most  women  have  no  characters  at  all  —  " 

a  dictum  which  we  should  denounce  with 
scorn,  if  so  acute  an  observer  as  De 
Quincey  did  not  stagger  us  by  defending 
it.  He  defends  it  to  attack  Pope.  Pope 
(says  De  Quincey)  did  not  see  that  what 
he  advances  as  a  reproach  against  women 
constitutes  the  very  beauty  of  them.  It  is 
the  absence  of  any  definite  character  which 
enables    their   character   to   he    moulded    by 

77 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

others ;  and  it  is  this  soft  plasticity  which 
renders  them  such  charming  companions  as 
wives.  It  may  be  so.  And  it  may  be  par- 
adisiacal bliss  to  have  a  wife  whom  you  can 
cut  out  on  a  paper  pattern.  Personally, 
we  should  prefer  to  keep  a  dog;  it  would 
be  less  expensive.  But  possibly  all  these 
things  are  so ;  and  we  address  our  remarks 
to  De  Quincey,  therefore,  with  diffidence. 
Nor  do  we  mean  them  to  have  more  than  a 
generic  application :  we  are  by  no  means  of 
that  influential  class  who  think  that  the 
Almighty  creates  men,  but  makes  women 
—  as  they  make  sausages.  Still,  we  are 
inclined  to  fancy  that  you  take  outward 
pliability  and  the  absence  of  imperious- 
ness  for  lack  of  essential  character.  Now 
to  execute  your  determination  by  command 
you  must  have  a  position  of  command ;  the 
lever  requires  a  fulcrum.  Without  this 
position  you  must  either  maintain  an  iso- 
lated, futile  obstinacy,  or  be  content  to 
sway  not  by  bending,  but  by  manipulating, 
the   will    of   others.      It    is,   we   think,   the 

78 


THE   WAV   OF    IMPKRI  !.<    HON 

pleasanter  way,  and  we  are  not  sure  that  it 
is  the  K'>s  effectual  way.  Partly  by  na- 
ture, partly  by  the  accumulative  influence 

of  heredity,  partly  perhaps  by  training, 
it  is  the  way  which  instinctively  com- 
mends itself  to  most  women.  But  because 
in  the  majority  of  cases  they  accommodate 
themselves  to  male  character  and  eschew 
direct  opposition,  it  by  no  means  follows 
if  our  view  be  correct,  (hat  they  forego 
their  own  character.  You  might  as  well 
accuse  the  late  Lord  Beaconsfield  of  being 
wanting  in  character,  because  instead  of 
hurling  his  ideas  against  an  unstormable 
opposition  he  tactfully  and  patiently  in- 
sinuated them.  We  should  be  inclined  to 
say  that  the  feminine  characteristic  which 
De  Quincey  considered  plasticity  was 
rather  elasticity.  Now  the  most  elastic 
substance  in  Nature  is  probably  ivory. 
What  are  the  odd-,  you  subtle,  paradoxical, 
delightful  ghost  of  delicate  thought, 
what  are  the  odds  on  your  moulding  a  bil- 
liard  ball?      Watching    the    other   day    an 

79 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

insect  which  betrayed  a  scientific  curiosity 
with  regard  to  our  lower  extremities,  we 
signified  to  it  our  inhospitable  disposition 
by  poking  it  with  a  stick.  Never  did  we 
see  such  a  plastic  insect.  Curling  up  into 
a  little  black-brown  pellet,  it  lay  so  mo- 
tionless that  we  thought  it  dead ;  but  in  a 
few  minutes  it  slowly  uncurled,  and  after 
a  period  of  cautious  delay  resumed  its  ad- 
vance. Four  times  was  this  repeated,  and 
on  each  occasion  the  advance  was  resumed 
as  if  never  resisted.  Then  patience  gave 
way.  The  insect  was  sent  rolling  into  a 
little  hole,  where  it  lay  curled  up  as  be- 
fore. For  twenty  minutes  by  the  clock  it 
remained  still  as  death.  Death,  indeed, 
we  thought  had  this  time  certainly  over- 
taken it,  and  with  a  passing  regret  for  our 
thoughtlessness  we  forgot  the  tiny  being 
in  thought.  Tenderer  were  its  recollec- 
tions of  us.  When  we  awoke  to  con- 
sciousness it  had  resumed  its  crawling.  If 
this  be  plasticity,  then  many  women  are 
plastic  —  very   plastic. 

80 


THE  WAV  OF  IMPERFECTION 

An   embodiment  —  or  enshadowment  — 

of  the  villainous  saying  which  I)e  Quincey 

thus  approves,  is  that  favorite  creation  of 
fiction  which  finds  its  most  recognizable 
(because  extreinest)  expression  in  Patient 
Grizzel  and  the  Nut-brown  Maid.  Does 
anyone  believe  in  Patient  Grizzel?  Still 
more,  does  anyone  believe  in  the  Nut- 
brown  Maid?  'Hair  descendants  infest 
literature,  from  Spenser  to  Dickens  and 
Tennyson,  from  Una  to  Enid  ;  made  tol- 
erable in  the  poem  only  by  their  ideal  sur- 
roundings. The  dream  of  "  a  perfect 
woman  nobly  planned "  underlies  the 
thing;  albeit  Wordsworth  goes  on  to  show 
that  his  "perfect  woman"  had  her  little 
failings.  Shakespeare  was  not  afraid  to 
touch  with  such  failings  his  finest  heroine- ; 
he  knew  that  these  defects  serve  only  to 
enhance  the  large  nobilities  of  character, 
as  the  tender  imperfections  and  wayward 
wilfulnesses  of  individual  rose-petals  en- 
hance the  prevalent  symmetry  of  the  rose. 
His    most    consummate    woman,    Imogen, 

81 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

possesses     her     little     naturalising    traits. 
Take  the  situation  where  she  is  confronted 
with  her  husband's  order  for  her  murder. 
What  the  Patient  Grizzel  heroine  would 
have  done  we  all  know.      She  would  have  be- 
haved with  unimpeachable  resignation,  and 
prepared  for  death  with  a  pathos  ordered 
according  to  the  best  canons  of  art.     What 
does  this  glorious  Imogen  do?     Why  (and 
we  publicly  thank  Heaven  for  it),  after  the 
first   paroxysm   of  weeping,   which   makes 
the  blank  verse  sob,  she  bursts  into  a  fit 
of    thoroughly    feminine    and    altogether 
charming  jealousy.     A  perfect  woman  in- 
deed, for  she  is  imperfect!     Imogen,  how- 
ever,  it  may  be  urged,   is  not   a  Patient 
Grizzel.     Take,  then,  Desdemona,  who  is. 
That  is  to  say,  Desdemona  represents  the 
type  in  nature  which  Patient  Grizzel  mis- 
represents.    Mark   now   the    difference   in 
treatment.      Shakespeare   knew   that   these 
gentle,    affectionate,    yielding,    all-submis- 
sive    and     all-suffering     dispositions     are 
founded  on  weakness,  and  accordingly  he 

82 


THE  WAY  OF   L\J  PERFECTION 

gave  Dcsdcmona  the  defects  of  her  quali- 
ties. He  would  have  no  perfections  in  his 
characters.  Rather  than  face  the  anger 
of  the  man  whom  she  so  passionately  loves, 
Desdemona  will  lie  -  a  slight  lie,  but  one 
to  which  the  ideal  distortion  of  her  would 
never  be  allowed  to  yield.  Yet  the  weak 
aess  hut  makes  Shakespeare's  lady  more 
credible,  more  piteous,  perhaps  even  more 
lovable,  because  more  human.  And 
Shakespeare's  knowledge  is  borne  out  by 
the  experience  of  those  best  qualified  to 
speak.  Woman  is  not  as  a  Shakespearian 
maxim  belied  by  the  Shakespearian  prac- 
tice asserts,  "  a  dish  for  the  gods  an  the 
devil  dress  her  not."  She  is  a  dish  for 
men,  and  if  she  be  imperfect  the  devil  has 
little  to  do  with  it.  Indeed  we  are  sorry 
that  Shakespeare  stooped  to  this  kind  of 
thing.  He  might  have  left  it  to  inferior 
men. 

From  the  later  developments  of  con- 
temporary fiction  the  faultless  hero  and 
heroine   have,    we    admit,    relievingly    di>- 

83 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

appeared.  So  much  good  has  been 
wrought  by  the  craze  for  "  human  docu- 
ments." But  alas !  the  disease  expelled, 
who  will  expel  the  medicine?  And  the 
hydra  perfection  merely  shoots  up  a  new 
head.  It  is  now  a  desire  for  the  perfect 
reproduction  of  Nature,  uninterfered  with 
by  the  writer's  ideals  or  sympathies ;  so 
that  we  have  novelists  who  stand  coldly 
aloof  from  their  characters,  and  exhibit 
them  with  passionless  countenance.1  We 
all  admire  the  representations  which  re- 
sult :  "  How  beautifully  drawn !  how  ex- 
actly like  Nature ! "  Yes,  beautifully 
drawn;  but  they  do  not  live.  They  re- 
semble the  mask  in  "  Phsedrus  " —  a  cun- 
ning semblance,  at  animam  non  habet. 
The  attitude  of  the  novelist  is  fatal  to 
artistic  illusion:  his  personages  do  not 
move  us  because  they  do  not  move  him. 
Partridge  believed  in  the  ghost  because 
the   little   man    on   the   staere   was    more 


a 


1  We  will  not  shield  ourselves  under  generalities. 
We  refer  especially  to  Mr.  Henry  James. 

84 


THE  WAY  OF  IMPERFECTION 

frightened  than  I ;  "  and  in  novel  read- 
ing we  are  all  Partridges;  we  only  be- 
lieve in  the  novelist's  creations  when  he 
shows  us  that  he  believes  in  them  himself. 
Finally,  this  pestilence  attacks  in  litera- 
ture the  form  no  less  than  the  essence, 
the  integuments  even  more  than  the  vitals. 
Hence  arises  the  dominant  belief  that  man- 
nerism is  vicious;  and  accordingly  critics 
have  erected  the  ideal  of  a  style  stripped 
of  everything  special  or  peculiar,  a  style 
which  should  be  to  thought  what  light  is  to 
the  sun.  Now  this  pure  white  light  of 
style  is  as  impossible  as  undesirable;  it 
must  be  splintered  into  color  by  the  re- 
fracting media  of  the  individual  mind, 
.m<!  humanity  will  always  prefer  the  color. 
Theoretically  we  ought  to  have  no  manner- 
isms; practically  we  cannot  help  having 
them,  and  without  them  style  would  be 
flavorless  — "  faultily  faultless,  icily  regu- 
lar, splendidly  null."  No  man  will  drink 
distilled  water;  it  is  entirely  pure  and  en- 
tirely  insipid.     The   object   of  writing  is 

85 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

to  communicate  individuality,  the  object 
of  style  to  adequately  embody  that  in- 
dividuality ;  and  since  in  every  individual- 
ity worth  anything  there  are  characteristic 
peculiarities,  these  must  needs  be  repro- 
duced in  the  embodiment.  So  reproduced 
we  call  them  mannerisms.  They  corre- 
spond to  those  little  unconscious  tricks  of 
voice,  manner,  gesture  in  a  friend  which 
are  to  us  the  friend  himself,  and  which 
we  would  not  forego.  Conscious  tricks 
of  habit,  it  is  true,  a  person  must  avoid, 
because  they  become  exaggerations ;  simi- 
larly, conscious  mannerisms  must  be 
pruned,  lest  they  become  exaggerations. 
It  is  affected  to  imitate  another's  tricks 
of  demeanor:  similarly,  it  is  affected  to 
imitate  another's  mannerisms.  We  should 
avoid  as  far  as  possible  in  conversation 
passing  conventionalities  of  speech,  be- 
cause they  are  brainless ;  similarly,  we 
should  avoid  as  far  as  possible  in  writing 
the  mannerisms  of  our  age,  because  they 
corrupt  originality.     But  in  essence,  mnn- 

86 


THE    WAY    OF    IMI'KKI  l.(  Tl()\ 

aerisms  —  individual  mannerisms,  are  a 
season  of  style,  and  happily  unavoidable. 

It  is,  for  instance,  stated  in  the  lately 
completed  "  Encyclopedia  Britannica  " 
that  Dc  Quincev  is  not  a  manneristic 
writer;  and  so  put  the  assertion  has  much 
truth.  Yet  he  is  full  of  mannerisms,  man- 
nerisms which  every  student  lovingly 
knows,  and  without  which  the  essayist 
would  not  be  our  very  own  Dc  Quinccy. 

We  say,  therefore:  Be  on  your  guard 
against  this  seductive  principle  of  perfec- 
tion. Order  yourselves  to  a  wise  conform- 
ity with  that  Nature  who  cannot  for  the 
life  of  her  create  a  brain  without  making 
one  half  of  it  weaker  than  the  other  half, 
or  even  a  fool  without  a  flaw  in  his  folly  ; 
who  cannot  set  a  nose  straight  on  a  man's 
face,  and  whose  geometrical  drawing 
would  be  tittered  at  by  half  the  young 
ladies  of  South  Kensington.  Consider  who 
is  the  standing  modern  oracle  of  perfec- 
tion, and  what  resulted  from  his  interpre- 
tation   of   it.     "  Trifles    make    perfection, 

87 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

and  perfection  is  no  trifle."  No;  it  is 
half-a-pound  of  muscle  to  the  square  inch 

—  and  that  is  no  trifle.  One  satisfactory 
reflection  we  have  in  concluding.  Wher- 
ever else  the  reader  may  be  grieved  by 
perfection,  this  article,  at  least,  is  sacred 
from  the  accursed  thing. 

Now,  how  much  of  all  this  do  we  mean? 

Hearken,  O  reader,  to  an  apologue. 
Once  on  a  time  there  was  a  hypochondriac, 
who  —  though  his  digestion  was  excellent 

—  believed  that  his  delicate  system  re- 
quired a  most  winnowed  choice  of  viands. 
His  physician,  in  order  to  humor  him, 
prescribed  a  light  and  carefully  varied 
diet.  But  the  hypochondriac  was  not 
satisfied. 

"  I  want  to  know,  Doctor,"  he  said, 
"  how  much  of  this  food  really  contributes 
to  the  building  up  of  my  system,  and  how 
much  is  waste  material?  " 

"  That,"  observed  the  sage  physician, 
"  I  cannot  possibly  tell  you  without  rec- 
ondite analysis  and  nice  calculation." 

88 


THE  WAY   OF   IMPERFECTION 

"  Then,"  said  the  hypochondriac,  in  a 
rage,  "I  will  not  eat  your  food.  You 
are  an  hnposter,  Sir,  and  a  charlatan,  and 
I  believe  now  your  friends  who  told  me 
that  you  were  a  homoeopath  in  disguise." 

"  My  dear  Sir,"  replied  the  unmoved 
physician,  "  if  you  will  eat  nothing  but 
what  is  entire  nutriment,  you  will  soon 
need  to  consult,  not  a  doctor,  but  a 
chameleon.  To  what  purpose  are  your 
digestive  organs,  unless  to  secrete  what  is 
nutritious,  and  excrete  what  is  innutri- 
tious?" 

And  the  moral  is  —  no.  On  second 
thoughts  our  readers  shall  have  a  pleasure 
denied  to  them  in  their  outraged  childhood. 
They  shall  draw  the  moral  themselves. 
He  that  hath  understanding,  let  him  under- 
stand. 


SQ 


NATURE'S  IMMORTALITY 

IN  the  days  when  days  were  fable,  be- 
fore the  grim  Tartar  fled  from  Cathay, 
or  the  hardy  Goth  from  the  shafted  Tar- 
tar; before  the  hardy  Goth  rolled  on  the 
hot  Kelt,  or  the  hot  Kelt  on  Italy  ;  before 
the  wolf-cubs  lolled  tongues  of  prey,  or 
Rhodian  galleys  sheered  the  brine,  an  isle 
there  was  which  has  passed  into  the  dreams 
of  men,  itself 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet 
breathing. 

And  when  the  Muses  talked,  they  named 
it  Sicily.  Was  it,  and  is  it  not?  Alas! 
where's  Eden,  or  Taprobane? 

Where  flows  Alpheus  now?  You  take 
a  ma})  (great  Poetry!  have  they  mapped 
Heaven?)     and     show     me  —  what?     The 

91 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

dust-heap  of  Italy ;  a  thing  spurned  con- 
temptuously from  the  toe  of  the  Ausonian 
mainland ;  you  point  to  it,  you  man  of 
knowledge,  and  this,  you  say,  is  Sicily. 
You  may  be  right,  I  know  not ;  but  it  is 
not  Sicily  to  me.  Yet  that  olden  Sicily 
could  not,  cannot  pass.  Dew  but  your 
eyes  with  the  euphrasy  of  fancy,  and 
purge  your  ears  with  the  poet's  singing; 
then,  to  the  ear  within  the  ear,  and  the 
eye  within  the  eye,  shall  come  the  green 
of  the  ever-vernal  forests,  the  babble  of 
the  imperishable  streams.  For  within  this 
life  of  ache  and  dread,  like  the  greenness 
in  the  rain,  like  the  solace  in  the  tear, 
we  may  have  each  of  us  a  dreamful  Sicily. 
And  since  we  can  project  it  where  we  will, 
for  me,  seeking  those  same 

Sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breath- 
ing, 

for  me,  perchance,  Sicily  may  be  Little 
Cloddington. 

What  balm  then  for  hurt  minds  has  my 
92 


NATURE'S   IMMORTALITY 

Sicily?  In  the  old  Sicily  "Shepherds 
piped  on  oaten  straws,"  and  the  inhabit- 
ants were  entirely  worthy  of  their  sur- 
roundings. But  that  cultivating  influence 
of  beauty  which  our  aesthetes  preach  has 
somehow  broken  down  in  the  case  of  Little 
Cloddington,  and  one  begins  to  have  an 
uneasy  suspicion  that  the  constant  imbib- 
ing of  beauty,  like  the  constant  imbibing 
of  wine,  dulls  the  brain  which  it  is  sup- 
posed to  stimulate.  Little  Cloddington 
is  islanded  alike  from  the  good  and  ill  of 
knowledge.  The  local  idea  of  geography 
is  that  Little  Cloddington  revolves  on  its 
own  axis  once  every  twenty-four  hours. 
This,  I  confess,  appears  to  me  a  dubious 
notion.  Personally,  I  believe  that  it 
would  take  Little  Cloddington  at  least  a 
year  to  revolve  on  anything.  The  average 
agricultural  laborer  seems  to  be  sprung 
from  the  illicit  union  of  a  mowing-machine 
and  a  turnip.  From  the  mowing-machine 
he  inherits  his  capacity  for  making  hay, 
from    the    turnip    his    attachment    to    the 

93 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

soil  and  his  capacity  for  imbibing  mois- 
ture. His  very  affections  are  strong  only 
as  the  roots  of  a  vegetable  are  strong ; 
they  have  no  vividness.  Compared  with 
the  town-dweller,  he  is  unquestionably  in- 
nocent —  innocent  of  everything.  If  this 
were  the  condition  of  man  before  the  Fall 
—  O !  maligned  Eve,  blessings  on  thee ! 
Without  the  admirable  foresight  of  our 
First  Mother,  we  should  have  been  exceed- 
ingly good,  doubtless ;  but  how  uncom- 
monly stupid  we  should  have  been !  It 
was  Mark  Twain  who  expressed  his  disap- 
pointment with  the  grisettes  of  Paris,  whom 
Parisian  novelists  represented  as  beautiful, 
and  as  distinctly  immoral.  The  disgusted 
humorist  made  very  unchivalrous  remarks 
about  the  grisettes'  beauty,  and  declared 
that  it  would  be  gross  flattery  to  say  they 
were  immoral.  Mark's  jest  is  fiction 
founded  on  fact.  The  cow  is  a  most  re- 
spectable, orderly,  docile,  and  inoffensive 
animal ;  yet,  since  the  days  of  Isis,  no  man 
has  honored  the  cow.     Now,  there  are  hu~ 

94 


NATURE'S  IMMORTALITY 

man  beings  who  possess  a  cow-like  virtue, 
who  pass  their  existences  doing  very  little 
harm  to  anyone,  and  very  little  good. 
They  are  turned  into  life  as  into  a  pasture, 
and  when  their  time  comes  they  are  turned 
out  again.     That  is  all. 

Let  us  quit  man,  then,  for  Nature.  To 
commune  with  the  heart  of  Nature  —  this 
has  been  the  accredited  mode  since  the  days 
of  Wordsworth.  Nature,  Coleridge  as- 
sures us,  has  ministrations  by  which  she 
heals  her  erring  and  distempered  child ; 
and  it  is  notorious  how  effectual  were  her 
ministrations  in  the  case  of  Coleridge. 
Well,  she  is  a  very  lovely  Nature  in  this 
Sicily  of  mine ;  yet  I  confess  a  heinous 
doubt  whether  rustic  stolidity  may  not  af- 
ter all  be  a  secret  effluence  from  her.  You 
speak,  and  you  think  she  answers  you.  It 
is  the  echo  of  your  own  voice.  You  think 
you  hear  the  throbbing  of  her  heart,  and 
it  is  the  throbbing  of  your  own.  I  do 
not  believe  that  Nature  has  a  heart;  and 
I  suspect,  that  like  many  another  beauty, 

95 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

she  has  been  credited  with  a  heart  because 
of  her  face.  You  go  to  her,  this  great, 
beautiful,  tranquil,  self-satisfied  Nature, 
and  you  look  for  —  sympathy?  Yes;  the 
sympathy  of  a  cat,  sitting  by  the  fire  and 
blinking  at  you.  What,  indeed,  does  she 
want  with  a  heart  or  brain?  She  knows 
that  she  is  beautiful,  and  she  is  placidly 
content  with  the  knowledge ;  she  was  made 
to  be  gazed  on,  and  she  fulfils  the  end  of 
her  creation.  After  a  careful  anatomisa- 
tion  of  Nature,  I  pronounce  that  she  has 
nothing  more  than  a  lymphatic-vesicle. 
She  cannot  give  what  she  does  not  need; 
and  if  we  were  but  similarly  organised, 
we  should  be  independent  of  sympathy. 
We  should  all,  in  fact,  be  better  if  we  had 
a  forcing-pump  instead  of  a  heart.  It  is 
too  frail  a  thing  for  working-days.  The 
animal  which  enjoys  the  earthly  summum 
bonum  is  unquestionably  the  pig ;  yet  even 
the  pig  would  be  more  perfect  if  it  were 
without     a     heart.     A     man     cannot     go 

96 


NATURE'S   IMMORTALITY 

straight  to  his  objects,  because  he  has 
a  heart;  he  cannot  cat,  drink,  sleep,  make 
money,  and  be  satisfied,  because  he  has  a 
heart.  It  is  a  mischievous  thing,  and 
wise  men  accordingly  take  the  earliest  op- 
portunity of  gi\  ing  it  away. 

Yet  the  thing  is  after  all  too  deep  for 
jest.  What  is  this  heart  of  Nature,  if  it 
<\ist  at  all?  Is  it  according  to  the  conven 
tional  doctrine  derived  from  Wordsworth 
and  Shelley,  a  heart  of  love,  according  with 
the  heart  of  man,  and  stealing  out  to  him 
through  a  thousand  avenues  of  mute  sym- 
pathy? No;  in  this  sense  I  repeat  seri- 
ously what  I  said  lightly:  Nature  has  no 
heart.  I  sit  now,  alone  and  melancholy, 
with  that  melancholy  which  conns  to  all 
of  us  when  the  waters  of  sad  knowledge 
have  left  their  ineffaceable  delta  in  the 
soul.  As  I  write,  a  calm,  faint-tinted 
evening  sky  sinks  [ike  a  nestward  bird  to 
its  sleep.  At  a  little  distance  is  a  dark 
wall  of  fir-wood  ;  while  close  at  hand  a  small 

97 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

group  of  larches  rise  like  funeral  plumes 
against  that  tranquil  sky,  and  seem  to  say, 
"  Night  cometh."  They  alone  are  in  har- 
mony with  me.  All  else  speaks  to  me  of 
a  beautiful,  peaceful  world  in  which  I  have 
no  part.  And  did  I  go  up  to  yonder  hill, 
and  behold  at  my  feet  the  spacious  amphi- 
theatre of  hill-girt  wood  and  mead,  over- 
head the  mighty  aerial  velarium,  I  should 
feel  that  my  human  sadness  was  a  higher 
and  deeper  and  wider  thing  than  all.  O 
Titan  Nature!  a  petty  race,  which  has 
dwarfed  its  spirit  in  dwellings,  and 
bounded  it  in  selfish  shallows  of  art,  may 
find  you  too  vast,  may  shrink  from  you 
into  its  earths:  but  though  you  be  a  very 
large  thing,  and  my  heart  a  very  little 
thing,  yet  Titan  as  you  are,  my  heart  is 
too  great  for  you.  Coleridge  speaking, 
not  as  Wordsworth  had  taught  him  to 
speak,  but  from  his  own  bitter  experience, 
said  the  truth: 

O  Lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  doth  Nature  live; 

98 


NATURE  S    IMMORTALITY 

Ours    is    her    wedding    garment,    ours    her 
shroud ! 

I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  glory  and  the  joy  whose  fountains  are 
within. 

The  truth,  in  relation  to  ourselves  ;  though 
not  the  truth  with  regard  to  Nature 
absolutely.  Absolute  Nature  lives  no1 
in  our  life,  nor  yet  is  lifeless,  hut  lives  in 
bhe  life  of  God:  and  in  so  far,  and  so  far 
merely,  as  man  himself  lives  in  that  life, 
does  he  come  into  sympathy  with  Nature, 
and  Nature  with  him.  She  is  God's 
daughter,  who  stretches  her  hand  only  to 
her  Father's  friends.  Not  Shelley,  not 
Wordsworth  himself,  ever  drew  so  close 
to  the  heart  of  Nature  a->  did  the  Seraph 
of  Assi>i,  who  was  close  to  the  Heart  of 
God. 

Yet  higher,  yet  further  let  us  go.  Is 
this  daughter  of  God  mortal ;  can  her  foot 
not  pass  the  grave?  Is  Nature,  as  men 
tell  us,  but  a  veil  concealing  the  Eternal, 

99 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

A  fold 
Of  Heaven  and  earth  across  His  Face, 

which  we  must  rend  to  behold  that  Face? 
Do  our  eyes  indeed  close  for  ever  on  the 
beauty  of  earth  when  they  open  on  the 
beauty  of  Heaven  ?  I  think  not  so ;  I 
would  fain  beguile  even  death  itself  with  a 
sweet  fantasy,  if  it  be  no  more  than  fan- 
tasy :  I  believe  that  in  Heaven  is  earth. 
Plato's  doctrine  of  Ideals,  as  I  conceive, 
laid  its  hand  upon  the  very  breast  of  truth, 
yet  missed  her  breathing.  For  beauty  — 
such  is  my  faith  —  is  beauty  for  eternity. 
If  the  Trinity  were  not  revealed,  I 
should  nevertheless  be  induced  to  suspect 
the  existence  of  such  a  master-key  by  the 
trinities  through  which  expounds  itself  the 
spirit  of  man.  Such  a  trinity  is  the  trin- 
ity of  beauty  —  Poetry,  Art,  Music.  Al- 
though its  office  is  to  create  beauty,  I  call 
it  the  trinity  of  beauty,  because  it  is  the 
property  of  earthly  as  of  the  heavenly 
beauty  to  create  everything  to  its  own 
image   and   likeness.      Painting   is   the   eye 

100 


N  A  II  RE'S   IMMORTALITY 

of  passion,  Poetry  is  the  voice  of  passion, 

.Music  is  tlic  throbbing  of  her  heart.     For 

all  beauty   is   passionate,  though   it   may  be 
a    passionless    passion.       So    absolutely    are 

these  three  the  distinct  manifestations  of  a 
Bingle  essence,  thai  in  considering  the  gen- 
eral operation  of  any  one  of  them  we  con 
sider   the    general    operation   of   all;   and 

hence,  as  most  easily  understood  because 
most  definitely  objective  in  its  result,  I 
take  Art.  Not  the  so-called  Art  which 
aims  at  the  mere  photographic  represents 
tion  of  external  objects,  for  that  can  only 
reproduce;  but  the  creative  Art  which 
alone  is  one  essence  with  Poetry  and 
Music. 

In  the  artist's  creation  there  are  two 
distinct  stages  or  processes,  the  second  of 
which  is  but  a  revelation  of  the  first. 
There  is  the  ideal  and  the  image  of  the 
ideal,  the  painting.  To  be  more  exact  I 
should  distinguish  an  intermediate  stage, 
only  theoretically  separable  in  order  of 
process    from    the    first    stage,    with    which 

101 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

it  is  or  may  be  practically  synchronous. 
There  is  first  the  ideal,  secondly  the  mental 
image  of  the  ideal  (i.  e.,  the  picture  of  it 
in  form  and  color  formed  on  the  mental 
eye  1),  thirdly,  the  external  or  objective  re- 
production of  the  mental  image  in  material 
form  and  color,  in  pigments.  Now  of 
these  three  stages  which  is  the  most  perfect 
creation,  and  therefore  the  most  beautiful? 
They  lessen  in  perfection  as  they  become 
material ;  the  ideal  is  the  most  perfect ;  the 
mental  image  less  perfect;  the  objective 
image,  the  painting,  least  perfect. 
"  But,"  you  say,  "  this  ideal  is  an  abstract 
thing,  without  real  existence."  The  com- 
monest of  errors,  that  the  ideal  is  the  un- 
real ;  and  the  more  pernicious  because 
founded   on   a  truth.      It   is   impossible  to 

i  On  the  mental  eye. —  I  use  the  popular  expres- 
sion. In  reality  this  image  is  as  really,  as  phys- 
ically (I  do  not  say  as  vividly)  seen  as  is  a  ray 
of  sunlight.  It  is  therefore  material,  not  spiritual. 
But  this  is  not  the  place  for  a  physiological  dis- 
cussion, and  I  he  popular  phrase  subserves  my  ob- 
ject, if  it  does  not  subserve  accuracy. 

102 


NATURE'S   [MMORTALITY 

speak  here  with  the  distinctions  and  modi- 
fications necessary  for  accuracy;  hut  gen- 
erally I  in.i\  Bay  this.  The  reality  of  the 
artist's  ideal  is  not  the  reality  of,  e.  g., 
.1  star;  for  one  is  man's  creation,  the  other 
directly  from  God.  Nor  is  the  reality  of 
the  artist's  ideal  the  same  in  kind  as  the 
reality  of  its  objective  image,  of  the 
painting.  The  one  exists  externally,  and 
the  senses  arc  cognisanl  of  it;  the  other 
within  his  spirit,  and  the  senses  can  take 
no  account  of  it.  Yet  both  are  real,  ac- 
tual. If  there  be  an  advantage,  it  is  not 
on  the  side  of  the  painting;  for  in  no  true 
sense  can  the  image  he  more  real  than  the 
thine  imaged.  I  admit  that  in  man  the 
ideal  has  not  the  continuous  vividness  of 
its  obiective  image.  The  ideal  may  be 
dimmed  or  even  forgotten;  though  I  hold 
that  in  Mich  a  case  it  is  merely  put  away 
from  spiritual  cognisance  as  the  painting 
might  be  put  out  of  physical  sight,  and 
that  it  still  exists  in  the  soul.  But  were 
the  artist  omniscient,  so  that  he  could  hold 

103 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

all  things  in  perpetual  and  simultaneous 
contemplation,  the  ideal  would  have  an 
existence  as  unintermittent  as  that  of  the 
painting,  and  unlike  that  of  the  painting, 
coeval  with  the  artist's  soul. 

In  Painting  and  Music  the  same  thing 
holds  good.  In  both  there  is  the  concep- 
tion (a  term  perhaps  less  suggesting  un- 
reality than  the  term  "  ideal  " )  with  its 
material  expression ;  and  between  these  two 
stages  a  mental  expression  which  the  ma- 
terial expression  cannot  realise.  The 
mental  expression  in  its  turn  cannot  rep- 
resent all  the  qualities  of  the  conception ; 
and  the  conception,  whose  essence  is  the 
same  in  all  three  arts,  has  a  subtlety  which 
the  expressional  union  of  all  three  could 
not  adequately  render,  because  expression 
never  fully  expresses.  Yet  (and  it  is  on 
this  that  I  insist)  the  conception  is  an 
actually  existent  thing,  an  existence  within 
an  existence,  real  as  the  spirit  in  which  it 
exists,  the  reality  of  which  the  objective 
reality  is  but  the  necessarily   less  perfect 

104 


NATURE'S   [MMORTALITi 

image,  and  transcending  in  beauty  the 
image  a>  Ixxlv  is  transcended  by  soul.  Can 
it  be  adequately  revealed  by  one  mortal 
to  another?  No.  Could  it  be  so  revealed? 
Yes.  If  the  spirit  of  man  were  untram- 
melled by  his  body,  conception  could  be 
communicated  by  the  interpenetration  of 
soul  and  soul. 

Let  us  apply  this.2  The  Supreme 
Spirit,  creating,  reveals  His  conceptions 
to  man  in  the  material  forms  of  Nature. 
There  is  no  necessity  here  for  any  inter- 
mediate process,  because  nobody  obstructs 
the  free  passage  of  conception  into  ex- 
pression. An  ideal  wakes  in  the  Omnipo- 
tent   Painter;    and   straightway    over   the 

2  Be  it  observed  that  I  am  not  trying  to  explain 
anything,  metaphysically  or  otherwise,  and  conse- 
quently my  language  is  not  to  be  taken  meta- 
physically. I  am  merely  endeavoring  analogically 
to  suggest  an  idea,  as  we  analogically  suggest,  with- 
out explaining,  the  Trinity  by  the  trefoil.  And  the 
whole  thing  is  put  forward  as  a  fantasy,  which  the 
writer  likes  to  think  may  he  a  dim  shadowing  of 
truth. 

105 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

eternal  dykes  rush  forth  the  flooding  tides 
of  night,  the  blue  of  Heaven  ripples  into 
stars ;  Nature,  from  Alp  to  Alpine  flower, 
rises  lovely  with  the  betrayal  of  the  Divine 
thought.  An  ideal  wakes  in  the  Omnipo- 
tent Poet ;  and  there  chimes  the  rhythm 
of  an  ordered  universe.  An  ideal  wakes 
in  the  Omnipotent  Musician ;  and  Creation 
vibrates  with  the  harmony,  from  the  palpi- 
tating  throat  of  the  bird  to  the  surges  of 
His  thunder  as  they  burst  in  fire  along 
the  roaring  strand  of  Heaven ;  nay,  as 
Coleridge  says, 

The  silent  air 
Is  Music  slumbering  on  her. instrument. 

Earthly  beauty  is  but  heavenly  beauty  tak- 
ing to  itself  flesh.  Yet  though  this  objec- 
tive presentment  of  the  Divine  Ideal  be 
relatively  more  perfect  than  any  human 
presentment  of  a  human  ideal,  though  it 
be  the  most  flawless  of  possible  embodi- 
ments ;    yet    is    even    the    Divine    embodi- 

106 


NATURE'S   [^MORTALITY 

ment  transcendentlv  inferior  to  the  I)i- 
vine  [deal.  Within  the  Spirit  Who  is 
Heaven,  lies  earth;  for  within  Him  rests 
the  great  conception  of  Creation.  There 
an-  the  woods,  the  streams,  the  meads,  the 
hills,  the  seas  thai  we  have  known  in  life, 
but  breathing  indeed  "  an  ample]-  ether. 
a  diviner  air,"  themselves  beautiful  with 
a  beautv  which,  for  even  the  highest  cre- 
ated spirit  utterly  to  apprehend  were 
"  swooning  destruction." 

Yet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath 

earned 
That   privdege  by  virtue. 

As  in  the  participation  of  human  spirits 

some  arc  naturally  more  qualified  for  in- 
terpenetration  than  others- — in  ordinary 
language,  as  one  man  is  more  able  than  his 
fellows  to  enter  into  another's  mind,  so 
in  proportion  as  each  of  us  by  virtue  has 
become  kin  to  God,  will  he  penetrate  the 
Supreme  Spirit,  and  identify  himself  with 

107 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

the  Divine  Ideals.  There  is  the  immortal 
Sicily,  there  the  Elysian  Fields,  there  all 
visions,  all  fairness  engirdled  with  the 
Eternal  Fair.  This,  my  faith,  is  laid  up 
in  my  bosom. 


108 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

IN  the  case  of  no  English  poet,  I  think, 
have  we  such  a  full  and  admirable  op- 
portunity of  studying  the  relation  between 
the  poet  and  his  poetry  as  in  the  cases  of 
K.ats  and  Shelley.  Of  the  two,  Shelley 
is  for  myself  the  more  fascinating  study ; 
because  the  directer  way  in  which  the 
younger  writer's  character  presents  itself 
to  our  apprehension  makes  the  problem 
more  obvious  with  him.  Yet  the  oppor- 
tunities afforded  in  the  instance  of  Shel- 
ley have  simply  split  the  public  into  two 
opposing  camps  over  this  question,  each 
maddeningly  extreme;  the  one  camp  wholly 
wrong,  and  the  other  so  wrongly  right 
that  it  were  almost  better  to  be  wholly 
wrong.  The  one  camp  finds  its  typical, 
because  hardy,  representation   in  the  say- 

109 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

ing  of  a  writer  who  two  or  three  years  ago 
denounced  the  poet  in  the  pages  of  a  Cath- 
olic periodical.  Shelley,  he  said,  was  a 
filthy  wretch ;  but  though  a  filthy  wretch 
might  write  angelic  poetry,  it  could  not 
make  him  an  angel,  or  even  a  decent  man. 
Here  is  the  one  view ;  that  a  poet's  poetry 
has  no  connection  with  his  personal  char- 
acter. Let  me  put  it  nakedly.  That  if 
Heliogabalus  had  possessed  Shelley's  brain, 
he  might  have  lived  the  life  of  Heliogaba- 
lus, and  yet  written  the  poetry  of  Shelley. 
To  those  who  believe  this  there  is  nothing 
to  say.  I  will  only  remark  in  passing  that 
I  take  it  to  be  the  most  Tartarian  lie  which 
ever  spurted  on  paper  from  the  pen  of  a 
good  man.  For  the  writer  was  a  good 
man,  and  had  no  idea  that  he  was  offering 
a  poniard  at  the  heart  of  truth.  The 
other  camp  started  from  the  principle  that 
the  poetry  is  the  poet.  In  this  they  were 
right ;  but  as  they  straightway  proceeded 
to  apply  it  wronghy,  the  principle  made 
little  difference  to  them.      Shelley's  poetry, 

110 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

they  said,  is  angelic.  Therefore,  Shelley 
was  an  angel.  Q.  E.  D.  I  need  hardly 
observe  that  Shelley's  poetry  is  not  an- 
gelic;  except  in  the  loose  sense  in  which 
we  may  call  a  skylark's  song  angelic, 
though  lie  is  probably  only  assuring  the 
universe  that  the  sun  rises  every  morning 
just  to  look  at  his  (the  skylark's)  mate 
in  her  nest.  However,  they  bowed  down 
and  worshipped  Shelley  the  angel,  until  it 
was  discovered  that  Shelley  was  not  an 
angel.  Thereupon  this  camp  split  into 
two  sections.  One  section  wandered  dis- 
consolate, finding  no  firm  rest  for  the  sole 
of  its  foot,  and  asking  with  Pilate,  "  What 
is  truth?",  while  the  other  section  imi- 
tated the  conduct  of  the  one-eyed  Admiral 
on  a  certain  famous  occasion,  and  contin- 
ued staunchly  to  worship  the  Shelley  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land.  Needless  to  say 
this  latter  camp,  SO  lamentably  divided, 
w.ts  of  those  who  take  to  their  hearts  that 
sweetly  pretty  portrait  evolved  by  a  young 
lady    of    the    true    old    ''sweetly     pretty" 

111 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

school.  I  mean  the  portrait  which  Miss 
Curran  gave  to  the  world,  with  "  A  Pres- 
ent for  a  Good  Girl "  writ  large  across 
its  face.  A  most  sweet,  sugar-candied 
Shelley  as  you  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day ; 
entirely  proper  to  be  carried  in  school- 
girls' pockets  and  surreptitiously  sucked 
during  lesson-time.  Alas !  the  sugar-can- 
died Shelley  has  melted  on  their  tongues, 
and  there  are  horrid  nasty  things  in  it, 
and  all  the  school-girls  —  male  and  female 
—  are  spitting  and  sputtering  it  out  of 
their  mouths.  Poor  sugar-candied  Shel- 
ley!  Poor  little  British  school-girl!  And 
oh !  poor  Poetry  ! 

Yet  that  the  "  revelations  "  of  recent 
years  respecting  Shelley  could  be  revela- 
tions to  any  discerning  reader  of  him,  is 
to  me,  I  confess,  itself  a  revelation.  The 
present  writer's  own  broad  wash  of  Shel- 
ley's character,  made  after  his  verse  — 
that  Veronica's  veil  whereon  he  wiped  his 
bloody    brows,1    has    never    received    from 

i  I  hope  no  too  literalising  reader  will,  by  pur- 

112 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

these  "  revelations  "  anything  beyond  de- 
tail and  sharpening.  I  can  only  conclude 
that  even  among  genuine  lovers  of  poetry, 
most  are  ignorant  of  the  allowances  nec- 
essary to  be  made  in  spelling  backwards  a 
poet's  character  from  his  work.  It  is  (but 
no  analogies  I  may  advance  can  be  ex- 
actly exact)  like  painting  a  vivid  sunset, 
whose  scheme  of  hues  dipped  in  air  and 
fire  must  be  transposed  into  the  opaque 
hues  of  earth.  The  poetry  is  the  poet, 
true;  but  the  poet  how?  In  his  hours  of 
what,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  we  call 
inspiration.  (It  is  a  pretentious  term 
which  I  do  not  like,  but  I  must  needs  use 
it.)  Now,  inspiration  cannot  alter  a 
poet's  character,  cannot  give  him  one  qual- 
ity which  it  did  not  find  in  him ;  but  it 
can  and  does  alter  the  aspect  of  his  quali- 
ties, affect  them  in  degree  though  not  in 
kind.  It  sublimes  and  it  concentrates.  It 
sublimes,  as  light  sublimes  translucid  color, 

suing  the  figure  into  vigorous  detail,  where  I  meant 
but  imagery,  evolve  never-meant  blasphemy. 

113 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

steeping  the  sere  leaf  in  a  luminous  syrup 
of  citron,  and  with  fair  saturation  conse- 
crating its  very  stains  and  dishonors  into 
loveliness.  So,  too,  permeated  by  inspira- 
tion, the  soberer  harmonies  of  the  poet's 
quiescent  spirit  kindle  with  tinges  more 
rarefied ;  so,  too,  the  poet's  very  faults  may 
by  inspiration  become  subtilised  into 
beauty,  because  there  is  revealed  that  soul 
of  goodness  which  is  often  in  evil,  when 
the  evil  springs  from  weakness  rather  than 
viciousness.2  But  infiltrated  with  light  or 
unlit,  with  inspiration  or  uninspired,  it  is 
the  same  leaf  and  the  same  spirit.  And 
inspiration  concentrates.  Hence  what  is 
a  power  in  the  poet's  writings  may  pre- 
sent itself  as  a  frequent  weakness  in  his 

2  Shelley's  deeper  moral  evil  betrays  itself  in  his 
poems  as  evil.  In  those  mermaid-peopled  waters 
there  is  the  occasional  protrusion  of  an  ugly  ten- 
tacle from  some  unsuspected  crevice.  Very  occa- 
sional; but  sufficient  to  have  shown  his  readers  that 
search  would  surely  disclose  the  unpleasant  lurk- 
ing thing.  For  over  those  waters  was  never  raised 
the  hand  that  was  raised  over  "  deep  Galilee." 

114 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  OX  SHELLEY 

familiar  intercourse.  For  when  we  scrutin- 
ise under  the  microscope  a  tenuous  film 
of  blood,  we  expect  to  see  blood's  accus- 
tomed splendid  sanguine;  and  find  instead 
a  fluid  of  all  but  imperceptible  strawy 
tint,  in  which  float  minute  discs  of  palest 
buff  color. 

Among  many  considerations  longer  than 
can  here  be  discussed,  the  above  two  must 
specially  be  recollected  by  him  who  would 
gauge  a  singer  from  his  songs ;  or  the  ad- 
mirer will  probably  be  disappointed.  That 
in  the  poet's  verse  allures,  which  in  his 
intercourse  may  repel ;  that  in  the  one  is 
power,  which  may  in  the  other  become 
weakness.  What  quality  dearer  in  Shel- 
ley's poetry  to  his  admirers  than  the 
frailly  delicate  impressibility,  sensitive  to 
every  flaw  of  opinion  as  a  moistened  cheek 
to  the  wind!  Yet  I  incline  to  think  that 
this  very  quality  aids  in  alienating  some 
critics  of  unquestioned  gifts:  and  perhaps 
his  admirers  may  better  understand  an  ef- 
fect at  first  sight  so  incomprehensible,  if 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

they  view  this  entrancing  quality  in  its 
every-day  dilution.  The  dilution  can  too 
readily  be  viewed  in  his  letters.  By  a 
singular  vagary  the  very  leader  of  the 
forlorn  hope  against  the  poems  held  the 
letters  up  to  admiration ;  and  was  an- 
swered by  Mr.  Swinburne  that  the  letters 
were  in  reality  "  nice "  letters,  such  as 
one  would  expect  from  a  young  lady.  Mr. 
Swinburne  might  have  gone  farther.  To 
myself,  at  least,  Shelley's  letters  are  often 
by  no  means  "  nice."  Let  frenzied  Shel- 
leians  cast  me  headlong  from  whatever 
may  be  the  English  equivalent  for  the 
"  steep  Tarpeian,"  I  will  say  my  thought. 
The  poet's  letters  are  often  effeminately 
sentimental ;  and  by  sentimental  I  mean, 
not  fraught  with  sentiment,  but  fraught 
with  sentimentality.  They  are  sometimes 
of  a  mawkishness  to  writhe  at.  Person- 
ally, I  love  Shelley  for  this  weakness:  but 
I  do  so  because  I  perceive  it  to  be  the 
unfermented  juice  of  his  genius,  and  there- 
fore to  be  loved,  not  scorned;  as  we  love, 

116 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

not  scorn,  thai  physical  weakness  of  woman 
by  which  her  subtler  distinctive  qualities 
are  almost  conditioned.  For  it  is  this 
weakness  which,  under  inspiration,  makes 
the  sensitive  magic  of  his  poetry.  Hut 
lads  notoriously  do  scorn  the  girl  for  her 
physical  weakness.  Lads,  likewise,  are 
notoriously  blind  or  contemptuous  to  the 
subtler  attractions  which  accompany  it. 
And  in  regard  to  poetry  of  the  Shelleian 
order,  I  fear  that  some  of  us  remain  lads 
to  the  end.  God  forbid,  indeed,  that  the 
masculine  element  should  fade  from  Eng- 
lish letters!  Poetry  has  an  arm  for  her 
hirsute  Dryden  no  less  than  for  her  soft- 
plumaged  Shelley  ;  and  in  this  respect  the 
present  writer  is  one  at  heart  with  her. 
But  it  is  the  lad,  not  the  man,  who  is  per- 
petually pulling  out  his  manhood,  like  a 
new  watch,  for  everybody  to  sec  it;  swag- 
gering, hands  in  pockets,  and  saying  "  By 
Jove!";  cuffing  his  weaker  brethren  out 
of  pure  manliness,  and  making  rude  re- 
marks to  his  sisters,  because  he  is  not  such 

117 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

a  "  muff  "  as  to  care  about  girls.  What 
if  we  find  writers  behaving  thus  in  litera- 
ture? Shall  we  not  begin  to  suspect  them 
of  an  uneasy  misgiving  that  there  is  a 
flaw  somewhere  in  their  virility?  Now, 
there  are  critics  who  have  this  self-con- 
scious masculinity,  which  is  at  times  little 
less  distressing  than  the  chastity  of  the 
British  Matron ;  men  in  whom  the  mascu- 
line element  is  intolerantly  developed  — 
fretfully,  harassingly  assertive.  And  they 
are  apt  to  turn  with  veritable  school-boy 
brutalism  of  impatient  disdain  from  poetry 
like  Shell's:  so  devoid  of  the  virile  ele- 
ment as  to  be  almost  sexless,  while  yet  — 
like  his  own  Hermaphrodite  —  it  unites 
the  grace  of  either  sex.  Was  it  any  con- 
scious intention  on  Shelley's  part  (one 
wonders)  which  has  made  Hermaphroditus 
a  personification,  an  allegory,  of  his  own 
genius?  For  such  it  is.  Suffer  me, 
reader,  to  quote  those  glorious  passages 
from  the  "  Witch  of  Atlas,"  that  you  may 
read  them  in  the  light  of  this  suggestion: 

118 


S  I'KAY  THOUGHTS  ON   SHELLEY 
Then   by   strange   art   she  kneaded   fire   and 


snow 


Together,  tempering  the  repugnant  mass 
With   liquid  love  —  all  things  together  grow 

Thro'  which  the  harmony  of  love  can  pass; 
And  a  fair  Shape  out  of  her  hands  did  flow  — 

A  living  Image  which  did  far  surpass 
In  beauty  that  bright  shape  of  Altai  stone 
Which  drew  the  heart  out  of  Pygmalion. 

A  sexless  thing  it  was,  and  in  its  growth 
It  seemed  to  have  developt  no  defect 

Of  either  sex,  yet  all  the  grace  of  both, — 
In   gentleness  and  strength  its  limbs  were 
deckt ; 

The    bosom    lightly    swelled    with    its    full 
youth, 
'Flic  countenance  was  such  as  might  select 

Some  artist  that  his  skill  should  never  die, 

Imaging  forth  such  perfect  purity. 

From  its   smooth  shoulders   hung  two  rapid 
wings, 
Fit  to  have  borne  it  to  the  seventh  sphere 
Tipt  with  the  speed  of  liquid  lightnings, 
Dyed  in  the  ardors  of  the  atmosphere: 
HP 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

She  led  her  creature  to  the  boiling  springs 
Where  the  light  boat  was  moored,  and  said : 
"  Sit  here !  " 
And  pointed  to  the  prow,  and  took  her  seat 
Beside  the  rudder,  with  opposing  feet. 

And  ever  as  she  went,  the  Image  lay 

With  folded  wings  and  unawakened  eyes; 

And  o'er  its  gentle  countenance  did  play 
The  busy  dreams,  as  thick  as  summer  flies, 

Chasing  the  rapid  smiles  that  would  not  stay, 
And    drinking    the    warm    tears,    and    the 
sweet  sighs 

Inhaling,  which,  with  busy  murmur  vain, 

They  had  aroused  from  that  full  heart  and 
brain. 

She  called  "  Hermaphroditus  !  " —  and  the 
pale 
And  heavy  hue  which  slumber  could  extend 

Over  its  lips  and  eyes,  as  on  the  gale 
A  rapid  shadow  from  a  slope  of  grass, 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  stream  did  pass. 

And  it  unfurled  its  heaven-coloured  pinions, 
With    stars    of    fire    spotting    the    stream 
below ; 

120 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

And  from  above  into  the  Sun's  dominions 
Flinging  a  glory,  like  the  golden  glow 
In  which  Spring  clothes  her  emerald-winged 
minions, 
All  interwoven  with  fine  feathery  snow 
And  moonlight  splendour  of  intensest  rime, 
With  which  frost  paints  the  pines  in  winter 
time. 

And  then  it  winnowed  the  Elysian  air 

Which  ever  hung  about  that  Lady  bright, 
With  its  ethereal  vans  —  and    peeding  there, 

Like  a  star  up  the  torrent  of  the  night, 
Or  a  swift  eagle  in  the  morning  glare 
Breasting   the    whirlwind    with    impetuous 
flight, 
The     pinnace,     oared     by     those     enchanted 

wings, 
Clove   the   fierce   streams   towards   their   up- 
per springs. 

If  critics  revolt  from  a  muse  such  as  this, 
so  spirit-like  in  its  absence  of  bone  and 
muscle,  a  muse  whose  crystalline  veins  run 
ichor,  whose  heart  is  rather  red  palpitant 
fire  than   red   palpitant   flesh;  we  are  not 

i-Ji 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

surprised  should  they  visit  harshly  the 
weaknesses  and  piteousnesses  of  the  poet 
apart  from  his  muse.  If  with  the  wine 
they  are  not  made  drunken,  no  marvel 
though  they  find  the  grapes  insipid.  But 
that  any  lover  of  that  muse  should  turn 
in  scorn  from  those  weaknesses,  can  only 
spring  of  ignorance.  Understanding  peo- 
ple must  have  forecasted  what  would  surely 
come  to  Keats  and  Shelley  from  that  ter- 
rible ordeal  of  the  unroofed  vie  intime. 

When  he  descended  down  the  Mount, 
His  countenance  was  most  divine. 

Rarely  arrives  the  favored  poet-soul  of 
whom  such  can  be  sung.  Most  often  we 
shall  see  instead  but  the  rusty  stains  where 
the  fire  has  seared  his  locks.  If  this  were 
better  comprehended,  we  should  have  less 
of  the  belief  that  poets  in  their  poetry 
assume  or  create  for  themselves  an  ideal 
character.  They  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
When  this  has  been  done  (as  Byron  did 
it)  the  result  is  false  poetry.     The  differ- 

122 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON"   SHELLEY 

ence  between  the  true  poet  in  his  poetry 
and   in   his  letters  or  personal   intercourse 

i-  just  tin.'  difference  between  two  states 
of  the  one  man ;  between  the  metal  live 
from  the  forge  and  the  metal  chill.  But 
chill  or  glowing,  the  metal  is  equally  itself. 
It'  difference  there  be,  it  is  the  metal  in 
glow  that  is  the  truer  to  itself.  For,  cold, 
it  may  be  overlaid  with  dirt,  obscured  with 
dust;  but  afire,  all  these  are  scorched  away. 
Coupling,  as  I  have  done,  the  names  of 
the  two  English  poets  who  have  possessed 
in  largest  measure  that  frail  might  of  sen- 
sibility, suggests  another  problem  which  — 
before  concluding  these  stray  thoughts  — 
I  should  like  to  put  forward,  though  I 
cannot  answer.  What  may  be  the  effect 
of  scenic  and  climatic  surroundings  on  the 
character  and  development  of  genius  such 
as  this?  Had  he  drunk  from  the  cup  of 
Italy  before,  not  after,  the  cup  of  death, 
how  would  it  have  wrought  on  the  pas 
sionate  sensitiveness  of  Keats?  Would  his 
poetry    have    changed    in    kind    or   power? 

128 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Cooped  in  an  English  city,  what  would 
have  betided  the  dewy  sensitiveness  of 
Shelley  ?  Could  he  have  created  the  "  Re- 
volt of  Islam  "  had  he  not  been  risen  warm 
from  the  lap  of  the  poets'  land?  Could 
he  have  waxed  inebriate  with  the  heady 
choruses  of  "  Prometheus  Unbound," 

Like  tipsy  Joy,  that  reels  with  tossing  head, 

if  for  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  with  their 
"  flowering  ruins,"  the  Italian  spring  and 
"  the  new  life  with  which  it  drenches  the 
spirits  even  to  intoxication,"  had  been  sub- 
stituted the  blear  streets  of  London ;  the 
Avernian  birds,  the  anaemic  herbage,  of 
our  parks ;  the  snivel  of  our  catarrhal 
May ;  and  the  worthless  I.  O.  U.  which 
a  sharping  English  spring  annually  pre- 
sents to  its  confiding  creditors?  Climate 
and  surroundings  must  needs  influence  vital 
energy ;  and  upon  the  storage  of  this  fuel, 
which  the  imaginative  worker  burns  at  a 
fiercer   heat   than    other   workers,    depends 

124- 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

a  poet's  sustained  power.  With  waning 
health  the  beauty  of  Keats's  poetry  dis- 
tinctly waned.  Nor  can  it  be  but  that 
beings  of  such  susceptibility  as  these  two 
should  transmute  their  color,  like  the  Cey- 
lonese  lizard,  with  the  shifting  color  of 
their  shifted  station.  I  have  fancied,  at 
times,  a  degree  of  analogy  between  the 
wandering  sheep  Shelley  and  the  Beloved 
Disciple.  Both  are  usually  represented 
with  a  certain  feminine  beauty.8  Both 
made  the  constant  burthen  of  their  teach- 
ing, "  My  little  children,  love  one  an- 
other." (It  is  true  that  Shelley  added  a 
second  precept,  hardly  perhaps  contem- 
plated by  the  Apostle, —  "  My  little  boys 
and  girls,  love  one  another.")  Both  have 
similarities  in  their  cast  of  genius.     The 

3 "  Represented ; "  For  though  Shelley's  I 
seems  unquestionably  to  have  had  a  feminine  char- 
acter, whether  it  really  possessed  any  physical 
heauty  whatever  is  a  question  <>n  which  a  dozen 
portraits  by  a  dozen  school-misses  could  not  satisfy 
me. 

125 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Son  of  Man  walks  amidst  the  golden  can- 
dlesticks almost  as  the  profane  poet  would 
have  seen  him  walk: 

"  His  head  and  his  hairs  were  white  as 
wool,  as  white  as  snow;  and  his  eyes  were 
as  a  flame  of  Are;  and  his  feet  like  unto 
fine  brass,  as  if  they  burned  in  a  furnace; 
and  his  voice  as  the  sound  of  many  waters." 

Receive  from  Shelley,  out  of  many  kin- 
dred phantasies,  this : 

White 
Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright 
snow, 

Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 
Scatter'd  in  string. 

And  finally,  with  somewhat  the  same 
large  elemental  vision  they  take  each  their 
stand ;  leaning  athwart  the  ramparts  of 
creation  to  watch  the  bursting  of  over- 
seeded  worlds,  and  the  mown  stars  falling 
behind  Time  the  scytheman  in  broad 
swarths  along  the  Milky  Way.      Now,  it  is 

126 


STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  SHELLEY 

shown  that  the  inspired  revelations  of  the 
inspired  Evangelist  are  tinged  with  im- 
agery by  the  scenery  of  Patmos.  If,  in- 
stead of  looking  from  Patmos  into  the 
eyes  of  Nature,  he  had  been  girt  within 
the  walls  of  a  Roman  dungeon,  might  not 
his  eagle  have  mewed  a  feather?  we  should 
have  had  the  great  Apocalyptic  prophecy; 
should  we  have  had  the  great  Apoca- 
Lyptic  poem?  For  the  poetical  great- 
ness of  a  Biblical  book  has  no  nec- 
essary commensuration  with  its  religious 
importance;  Job  is  greater  than  Isaiah. 
Might  even  St.  John  have  sung  less  highly, 
though  not  less  truly,  from  out  the  glooms 
of  the  Tullianum?  Perhaps  so  it  is;  and 
perhaps  one  who  hymned  the  angel  Israfcl 
spoke  wider  truth  than  he  knew. 

The  ecstasies  above 
^^' i 1 1 1  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 


127 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine,  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


1?8 


CRASHAW 

RICHARD  CRASHAW,  Canon  of 
Loretto;  an  Englishman,  a  Catholic, 
and  a  poet  who  lent  inspiration  for 
"  Christabel."  Yet  an  unpopular  poet; 
and  a  poet  whose  unpopularity  is  born 
very  much  of  his  own  faults.  Cowley, 
his  friend  and  brother-singer,  wrote  upon 
him  a  fine  and  Dryden-like  elegy ;  his 
work  has  won  the  warm  admiration  of 
many  eminent  men,  prominent  among 
whom  is  said  to  be  Cardinal  Newman;  but 
except  by  such  professed  students  of 
literature   it   is   hardly   read. 

Like  his  predecessor,  George  Herbert, 
he  was  a  religious  writer;  and  Herbert 
has  still  a  large  following  among  the  ad- 
mirers of  that  poetry  which  is  exempli- 
fied .il   the  present  day  !>y   Kehle  ami  New- 

129 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

man.  Crashaw,  though  a  poet  of  much 
higher  flight,  has  no  such  clientage. 
Something  must  be  allowed  for  his 
Catholicity,  into  which  he  threw  himself 
with  the  tender  ardor  of  his  nature ;  and 
the  bulk  of  his  poetry  was  written  after 
his  conversion.  Yet  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  this  is  the  sole  or  chief  reason. 
The  truth  is  (though  it  may  have  been 
otherwise  during  his  own  age  and  the 
rampant  influence  of  Donne)  that  he  is 
not  now  in  touch  with  the  very  class  to 
whom  his  work  makes  apparent  appeal. 
And  the  lovers  of  poetry  for  its  own  sake, 
to  whom  he  really  appeals,  having  learned 
by  melancholy  experience  how  little  reli- 
gious verse  is  anything  more  than  verse, 
are  repelled  rather  than  attracted  by  pro- 
fessedly religious  poetry.1  Between  these 
two  stools,  we  think,  Crashaw  falls  to  the 

i  By  professedly  religious  poetry,  not  necessarily 
by  religion.  It  is  not  the  presence  of  religion,  but 
the  too  prevalent  absence  of  poetry,  which  is  the 
repellant  quality. 

130 


CRASHAW 

ground.  Herbert  is  a  smaller  poet,  but 
Herbert  is  a  greater  religious  writer. 
Crashaw's  genius,  in  spite  of  his  often 
ecstatic  devotion,  is  essentially  a  secular 
genius.  He  writes  on  religious  themes ; 
but  he  writes  of  them  as  .Milton  wrote 
in  the  "  Ode  on  the  Nativity,"  or  Rossetti 
in  the  "  Ave."  Milton  speaks  with  the 
gravest,  Rossetti  with  the  warmest  rever- 
ence ;  yet  they  are  allured,  not  by  the 
religious  lessons,  but  by  the  poetical  gran- 
deur or  beauty  of  their  subject;  and  it  is 
the  same  with  Crashaw.  lie  sings  the 
tears  of  Magdalen.  But  he  sings  them 
much  as  Shelley  sings  his  "  Skylark  " ; 
stanza  following  stanza  in  a  dropping 
rain  of  fancies,  as  Shelley  expands,  lustred 
plume  by  plume,  the  peacock  splendor  of 
his  imagery.  He  sings  the  Stable  of 
Bethlehem.  But  he  does  not  sing  its  les- 
sons of  humility,  poverty,  self-abnegation; 
he  sings  of  the  Divine  light  shining  from 
the  Child,  of  the  snows  offering  their 
whiteness   and   the   seraphim    their   roseate 

131 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

wings,  to  strew  the  heavenly  Infant's 
couch.  The  themes  are  religious,  the 
poetry  beautiful;  but  it  is  not  what 
people  are  accustomed  to  understand  by 
religious  verse. 

Apart,  however,  from  a  disadvantage 
compatible  with  unblemished  excellence, 
there  is,  it  must  be  conceded,  a  just  reason 
for  Crashaw's  unpopularity ;  a  reason 
which  excludes  the  charge  of  unmerited 
neglect.  He  has  written  no  perfect 
poems,  though  some  perfect  poetry,  and 
that  is  discontinuous.  His  faults  are 
grave,  exasperatingly  prominent,  and  — 
throughout  large  portions  of  his  work  — 
are  not  merely  present  as  flaws,  but  con- 
stitute an  intimate  alloy.  The  consequent 
vitiation  of  his  nevertheless  great  beauty 
alienates  general  readers,  and  —  unless 
they  come  prepared  to  give  him  special 
attention  —  discourages  even  poetical 
readers.  For  there  are,  in  regard  to  verse, 
two  classes  of  readers.  The  general 
reader,  attracted  by  the   accidents   rather 

132 


CEASHAW 

than  the  essence  of  poetry,  regards  the 
poei  much  as  a  barrel-organ  to  reel  off 
his  (the  reader's)  favorite  tunes,  or  is  af- 
fected by  him  in  proportion  as  he  mirrors 
the  broad  interests  common  to  all  human 
ity.  But  the  poetical  reader,  as  we  have 
called  him,  is  of  kin  to  the  poet.  He  is 
born  with  the  lyre  not  in  his  hand,  but  in 
his  bosom  ;  not  for  his  own  touch,  but  to 
thrill  in  sympathy  with  the  swept  chords 
of  all  singers.  He  loves  poetry  for  its 
poetry.  To  the  first  class,  Crashaw,  were 
he  as  faultless  as  he  is  faulty,  could  never 
be  of  interest,  owing  to  his  deficiency  in 
the  human  element,  to  the  ethereal  ^sub- 
stantialities of  his  genius.  But  poetical 
readers  unfamiliar  with  him  may  be  stimu- 
lated to  make  a  pleasant  acquaintance,  if 
we  bring  together  some  typical  specimens 
of  his  excellence  dismantled,  so  far  as  pos- 
sible, of  its  parasitic  growths. 

Since  because  of  this  plan  his  defects 
will  not  come  conspicuously  before  the 
reader,  it  is  all  the  more  necessary  to  ex- 

[3  ■ 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

plain  in  what  these  defects  consist;  and 
to  warn  the  intending  student  that  in  the 
original  they  will  confront  him  intermit- 
tently, demanding  that  habitual  allowance 
which  we  make  for  infantile  deficiencies 
of  technical  knowledge  in  early  Italian 
painters.  The  explanation  is  simple. 
Crashaw  riots  in  conceits.  Originally  the 
word  "  conceit "  signified  merely  a  de- 
tached cameo-like  image,  such  as  form  the 
bulk  of  Shelley's  "  Skylark."  An  Eliza- 
bethan critic  would  have  styled  that  "  an 
excellent  conceited  poem,"  and  he  would 
have  been  right.  But  we  use  the  term 
in  its  modern  and  opprobrious  sense,  ac- 
cording to  which  it  means  an  image 
marked  by  high-wrought  ingenuity  rather 
than  beauty  or  appropriateness.  From 
Donne  to  Dryden  most  of  our  poets  in- 
dulged in  this  vice ;  and  Crashaw  only  fol- 
lowed the  fashion  of  his  day.  But  he 
sublimated  his  errors  as  he  sublimated  his 
poetry,  beyond  the  level  of  his  brother- 
singers.      So,  in  a  large  canvas,  faults  of 

134 


CRASH AW 

draughtsmanship  comparatively  unnotice- 
able  in  a  cabinet-picture  become  painfully 
apparent  because  magnified  by  the  increase 
of  scale  The  perverted  ardor  of  his  de- 
votion to  the  false  fashion,  no  less  than 
its  contrast  with  his  exquisite  powers,  ren- 
der it  peculiarly  intolerable.  It  corrupted 
his  judgment  so  that  years  but  rooted  the 
fault  more  deeply;  and  in  his  maturest 
poems  he  cannot  write  twenty  consecutive 
lines  without  lapsing  from  finished  deli 
cacy  to  errors  of  taste  which  make  the 
reader  writhe.  Trailing  in  exasperating 
profusion  over  his  most  charming  verse 
are  lines  of  which  the  following  present  a 
perhaps  extreme  example.  They  refer  to 
the  weeping  eyes  of  St.   Mary    Magdalen. 

And   now  where'er   He  strays, 
#  *  *  *  * 

He's  followed  by  two  faithful  fountains; 
Two  walking  hut  lis,  two  weeping  motions, 
Portable    and    com  pendions    oceans. 


185 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

When  the  reader  has  recovered,  he  may 
take  this,  which  is  not  an  extreme  example. 

Does  thy  sweet-breathed  prayer 
Up  in  clouds  of  incense  climb? 
Still  at  each  sigh,  that  is  each  stop, 
A  bead,  that  is  a  tear,  does  drop. 

It  might  have  been  a  fair  image ;  but  the 
hard  elaboration  of  detailed  touch  ruins 
it  in  the  expression.  And  here,  finally,  is 
a  specimen  of  the  high-raised  conceits  in 
which  he  abounds ;  high-raised  to  such  a 
degree  that  one  editor,  Dr.  Grosart,  quotes 
it  with  admiration.  To  us  it  appears  so 
essentially  fantastic  in  its  fancy,  and 
strained  in  expression,  as  to  merit  only 
the  phrase  which  we  have  applied  to  it. 

Heavens  thy  fair  eyes  be; 

Heavens  of  ever-falling  stars. 

'Tis  seed-time  still  with  thee; 

And  stars  thou  sow'st  whose  harvest  dares 
Promise  the  earth  to  countershine 
Whatever  makes  Heaven's  forehead  fine. 


136 


CRASH AW 

To  the  foregoing  indictment  we  must 
add,  that  there  is  often  a  feminine  effu- 
siveness, and  almost  hysterical  fantasy  in 
his  religious  raptures,  which  is  a  weakness 
complementary  to  his  sensitive  tenderness. 
These  disfigurements  lie  thick  on 
Crashaw's  poetry ;  or  its  wine  would  need 
no  bush.  But  there  is  rich  compensation 
for  those  who  will  move  aside  the  rank 
undergrowth.  Every  now  and  then  the 
rare  genius  of  the  man  shines  away  the 
infectious  vapors  of  contemporary  in- 
fluence which  stain  it  with  eclipse;  and 
he  is  transfigured  before  our  eyes.  His 
very  faults 

Suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange; 

his  conceits  into  fancies  of  delicate  grace, 
his  tortured  language  into  the  most  refined 
sorcery  of  expression,  his  emotional  fem- 
ineity  into  rarefied  ethereality  of  senti- 
ment. Fancy,  expression,  lofty  ideal 
sentiment  —  these    sum    sufficiently    fairly 

-137 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

the  qualities  which  we  claim  for  him  at 
his  best.2  It  is  perhaps  his  abundant 
fancy  which  has  caused  his  admirers  to 
compare  him  with  Shelley,  a  comparison 
to  which  we  do  not  entirely  adhere,  while 
we  admit  some  resemblance,  stronger  in 
certain  moods  than  in  others.  His  fond- 
ness for  stringing  together  a  series  of 
images  on  a  given  subject,  which  often 
makes  a  whole  poem  a  veritable  air  with 
variations,  recalls  Shelley's  habit  of  weav- 
ing similar  chaplets.  But  Crashaw's  im- 
agery is  fragile  and  lily-like,  the  offspring 
of  fancy ;  Shelley's  rich  and  glowing,  the 
offspring  of  imagination.  Dr.  Grosart, 
however,  who  strongly  upholds  the  theory 
of  Crashaw's  resemblance  to  Shelley,  cred- 
its the  elder  poet  in  the  highest  measure 
with  this  very  quality  of  imagination ;  and 
if  we  could  agree  in  such  a  judgment,  we 
should  have  no  difficulty  in  accepting  the 

2  A  fourth  quality  —  metrical  beauty  —  not  being 
an  intellectual  one,  we  reserve  it  for  separate  con- 
sideration. 

138 


CEASHAW 

theory.  It  is  partly  because  we  regard 
imagination  as  one  of  Shelley's  most  es 
sential  attributes,  but  hold  Crashaw's 
dominant  faculty  to  be  fancy,  that  we  dis- 
sent from  the  current  view.3  Yet  since 
Shelley's  fancy  is  hardly  less  striking  than 
his  imagination,  there  still  remains  ground 
for  comparison. 

Another  reason  for  our  dissent  is  to 
be  found  in  Crashaw's  expression.  If  it 
be  remembered  that  we  are  now  treating 
of  him  at  his  best,  we  may  say  unhesitat- 
ingly that  it  is  perfect  in  its  kind.  Hut 
that  kind  belongs,  we  think,  to  another 
school  than  Shelley's,  a  school  of  which 
the  supreme  modern  example  is  Coleridge. 
All  great  poets  at  their  finest  are  perfect 
in  expression;  but  as  the  colorist's  gift 
may  in  itself  reach  genius,  so  a  small 
cumber  of  poets  are  so  unique  in  expres- 
sion   that     their    diction     alone     is     almost 

3  We  use  the  terms  "  imagination  "  and  "  fancy  " 
(as  does  Dr.  Grosart)  in  the  sense  defined  by  Cole- 
ridge. 

139 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

poetry.  These  masters  of  diction  may  be 
divided  into  two  classes.  The  first  class 
aim  at  enthralment  by  the  display  of  their 
art ;  the  second,  by  its  concealment. 
Painting  exhibits  an  analogy.  There  are 
painters  like  Rubens,  who  astonish  by  the 
masterly  revelation  of  their  brushwork ; 
there  are  painters  like  Titian,  who  aston- 
ish by  the  mystery  of  its  achievement.  To 
the  first  class  belong  Milton,  Gray,  Keats, 
Tennyson,  and  Rossetti.  It  is  occasion- 
ally objected  to  some  of  them  —  as  for 
instance,  to  Tennyson  —  that  they  do  not 
sufficiently  conceal  their  art.  But  in 
reality  the  very  delight  of  such  work  re- 
sides in  the  constant  sense  of  profound 
skill,  of  rich  research,  of  splendid  vesture 
fitly  worn,  and  beauty  incarnating  herself 
in  subtly  chosen  form.  It  is  only  when 
the  kingly  robes  are  worn  by  an  unkingly 
man,  when  thought  falls  below  expression, 
that  the  richness  grows  offensive.  And 
when  that  occurs,  it  will  generally  be  found 
that  the  richness  is  an  imitative  richness. 

140 


CRASHAW 

A  poet  with  genius  enough  to  form  a  dic- 
tion of  his  own,  has  genius  enough  to 
know  what  to  say  in  it.  To  the  second 
class  belong  by  a  natural  affinity  most  of 
the  subtle,  skiey  poets,  with  two  striking 
exceptions  —  Chaucer,  who  does  belong  to 
it,  and  Shelley  who  but  partially  belongs 
to  it.  It  is  distinguished  by  a  choiceness 
known  only  from  its  effects,  a  delicate 
witchery  which  defies  analysis;  a  diction, 
indeed,  which  almost  effects  the  miracle 
of  speaking,  like  music,  to  the  soul  rather 
than  the  understanding.  Beauty  does  not 
incarnate  herself:  she  descends  in  the  spirit. 
This  class  includes  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Col- 
lins, Coleridge,  and  at  times,  especially  in 
some  of  his  smaller  hrrics,  Shelley.  More 
generally  he  belongs  to  the  first  class,  with 
the  difference  that  while  others  of  that 
class  are  marked  by  a  vivid  concentration, 
he  is  marked  by  an  opulent  diff'usencss 
of  splendor.  One  poet  alone  is  master 
at  will  of  either  style  —  that  despot  of 
language,  Shakespeare. 

141 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Crashaw's  diction,  when  most  excellent, 
belongs  to  the  latter  school;  and  in  this 
quality  he  is  often  as  nearly  akin  to  Cole- 
ridge as  a  lyric  can  be  to  a  narrative  poet. 
It  is  the  true  wonder-working  diction ;  and 
when  his  ideas  free  themselves  from  con- 
ceit sufficiently  to  give  his  diction  a  chance, 
the  combination  is  unsurpassable  for  sweet 
felicity.  Take  as  a  specimen  a  selection 
of  stanzas  from  the  poem  on  St.  Mary 
Magdalen  called  "The  Weeper."  We 
have  so  arranged  them  as  to  form  a  con- 
tinuous whole ;  while  the  reader  will  per- 
ceive by  the  numbering  of  the  stanzas  how 
many  we  have  omitted. 

VII 

The  dew  no  more  will  weep, 

The  primrose's  pale  cheek  to  deck; 
The  dew  no  more  will  sleep, 
Nuzzled  in  the  lily's  neck; 
Much  rather  would  it  be  thy  tear, 
And  leave  them  both  to  tremble  here. 


142 


CRASH AW 


Not  in  the   Evening's  eyes, 

When    they   red   with   weeping  are 
For  the  Sun  that  dies, 

Sits  Sorrow  with  a  face  so  fair. 
Nowhere  hut  here  did  ever  meet 
Sweetness  so  sad,  sadness  so  sweet. 

XI 

Sadness,  all  the  while 

She  sits  in  such  a  throne  as  this, 
Can  do  nought  hut  smile, 

Nor  believes  she  Sadness  is: 
(Hadness   itself   would  he  more  glad 
To  be  made  so  sweetly  sad. 

XV 

Well  does  the  May  that  lies 

Smiling   in   thy   cheeks    confess 
The    April    in    thine   eves; 

Mutual  sweetness  they  express. 
No  April  e'er  lent  kinder  showers, 
Nor  May   returned   more   faithful   flowers. 

143 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

XXIII 

O  precious  prodigal! 

Fair     spendthrift     of     thyself!     thy 
measure 
(Merciless  love!)  is  all, 

Even  to  the  last  pearl  in  thy  treasure: 
All  places,  times,  and  seasons  be 
Thy  tears'   sweet  opportunity. 

XXIV 

Does  the  day-star  rise? 

Still  thy  tears  do  fall  and  fall. 
Does   Day  close  his  eyes? 

Still  the  fountain  weeps  for  all. 
Let  Night  or  Day  do  what  they  will, 
Thou  hast  thy  task:  thou  weepest  still. 

XXVIII 

Not  "  so  long  she  lived," 

Shall  thy  tomb  report  of  thee; 
But,  "so  long  she  grieved:" 
Thus  must  we  date  thy  memory. 
Others  by  moments,  months,  and  years, 
Measure  their  ages;  thou,  by  tears. 
144- 


CRASHAW 

The  way  in  which  the  beautiful  opening 
lines  of  stanza  VII.  are  marred  by  the 
concluding  conceit  to  which  they  lead  up, 
is    unfortunately    characteristic    of    Cra- 

shaw.  Hut  stanza  X.  is  lovely  through- 
out, perfect  both  in  fancy  and  expression 
to  the   charmingly    phrased   final   couplet. 

The  secular  cast  of  Crashaw's  genius  is 
well  illustrated  in  these  excerpts;  and  the 
more  strikingly  to  enforce  it  we  will  show 
the  reader,  by  a  parallel  treatment  of  a 
love-poem,  how  entirely  the  difference  be- 
tween the  two  is  a  difference  of  subject. 
The  "Wishes  to  a  Supposed  Mistress" 
is  one  of  his  few  secular  poems,  and  of 
his  only  two  love-poems:  it  is,  moreover, 
as  happy  an  inspiration  as  he  has  left  us. 
with  a  smaller  proportion  of  conceits  than 
usual.  So  far  as  is  consistent  with  our 
limits,  we  have  retained  the  finest  stanzas, 
and  omitted  only  those  which  are  blem- 
ished. 


145 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

1 

Whoe'er  she  be  — 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me: 

2 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny: 

3 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  step  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth: 

4 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine: 


Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
And  be  ye  called  my  absent  kisses. 
146' 


CRASHAW 
6 


I  wish  her  Beauty, 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist  ring  shoe-tie: 

11 

A  Cheek,  where  youth 

And    blood,   with   pen   of   truth, 

Write   wiiat  the  reader  sweetly  ruth. 

16 

Tresses,   that  wear 

Jewels  but  to  declare 

How  much  themselves  more  precious  are: 

21 

Smiles,  that  can  warm 

The  blood,  yet  teach  a  charm, 

That  chastity  shall  take  no  harm. 

22 

Blushes,   that   bin 
The   burnish  of  no  sin. 
Xor  flames  of  aught    too  hot  within. 
1  17 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

26 

Days  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow, 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow: 

27 

Days  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

29 

Life    that   dares    send 
A  challenge  to  his  end, 
And     when     it     comes,     say,     "  Welcome, 
friend !  " 

30 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers. 

31 

Soft  silken  hours, 
Open  suns,  shady  bowers; 
'Bove   all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 
148 


CRASH  AW 

32 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  Day's  forehead  bright, 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  Night. 

35 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes;  and  I   wish  —  no  more. 

36 

Now,  if  Time  knows 

That    Her,    whose    radiant   brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows; 

38 

1 1 1  r.  that  dares  be 

W'liat  these  lines  wish  to  see; 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

39 

'Tis   She,  and  here, 

Lo !      I   unclothe  and   clear 

Mv   Wishes'   cloudy    character. 

149 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

40 

May  she  enjoy  it 

Whose  merit  dare  apply  it, 

But  modesty  dares  still  deny  it! 

41 

Such    worth    as    this    is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  Wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

42 

Let  her   full   glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye; 

Be  ye  my  fictions  —  but  her  story. 

A  typical  specimen  of  his  best  religious 
work  is  that  "  Hymn  of  the  Nativity," 
to  which  we  alluded  in  the  opening  of  our 
article.  We  can  only,  in  our  remaining 
space,  draw  together  three  or  four  of  the 
most  admirable  stanzas,  which  we  place 
before  the  reader  without  further  preface. 
They  are  sung  by  the  shepherds  in  alter- 
nate verses. 

150 


CRASHAW 


BOTH 


We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Young   dawn    of   our   eternal    Day! 

We  saw   Thine  eyes  break  from  Their  East 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 

We  saw  Thee;  and  we  blessed  the  sight; 
We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  Own  sweet  light. 


TITYRUS 

I   saw  the  curled  drops,  soft  and  slow, 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's   head; 

Offering   their   whitest  sheets   of   snow 
To   furnish  the   fair   Infant's   bed: 

Forbear,  said  I,  be  not  too  bold, 

Your  fleece  is  white,  but  'tis  too  cold. 

THYRSIS 

I  saw  the  obsequious  Seraphim, 
Their  rosy  fleece  of  fire  bestow, 

For  well  they  now  can  spare  their  wing, 
Since   Heaven  itself  lies  here  below. 

Well  done,  said  I ;  but  are  you  sure 

Your  down  so  warm  will  pass  for  pure? 
151 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

BOTH 

We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Bright  dawn  of  our  eternal  Day! 

We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  Their  East 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 

We  saw  Thee;  and  we  blessed  the  sight; 

We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  Own  sweet  light. 

FULL  CHORUS 

Welcome,  all  wonders  in  one  sight! 

Eternity   shut    in    a   span ! 
Summer  in  Winter,  Day  in  Night! 

Heaven  in  Earth,  and  God  in  man ! 
Great     little      One !     Whose      all-embracing 

birth 
Lifts    Earth    to    Heaven,    stoops    Heaven    to 
Earth. 

Notice  that  most  apt  epithet,  "  curled 
drops."  Of  all  the  poets  who  have  de- 
scribed snow,  we  do  not  recollect  one  be- 
sides Crashaw  who  has  recorded  this  char- 
acteristic trait  of  snow-flakes.  They  are 
curled.     Pluck    one    of    the    inner    petals 

152 


CRASHAW 

from  a  rose,  lay  it  with  its  concavity  up- 
permost,  and  you  have  a  sufficiently  close 
resemblance  to  the  general  form  of  a  snow- 
flake  when  falling  through  the  air.  It  is 
easy  to  see  the  reason  of  this  form.  The 
pressure  of  the  atmosphere  on  the  lower 
surface  of  the  descending  flake  necessarily 
tends  to  curve  upward  its  edges.  But 
Crashaw  alone  has  thought  of  noting  the 
fact. 

This  notice  would  be  incomplete  did  we 
not  refer  to  our  poet's  metre.  It  is 
worthy  of  observation  that  all  the  poets 
whom  we  have  named  in  our  second  class 
are  as  remarkable  for  their  versification 
as  their  expression.  Chaucer,  of  course, 
founded  English  rhyming  heroics;  while 
Spenser,  Collins,  and  Coleridge  are  masters 
of  metrical  combination.  Crashaw  is  a 
worthy  companion  to  these  great  names; 
not,  it  is  true,  as  regards  the  invention 
and  treatment  of  irregular  nut  res,  hut  in 
the  cunning  originality  with  which  he 
manipulates  established  forms.      lie  is  uii- 

153 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

equal  even  here:  it  would  be  easy  to  cite 
examples  of  harshness  and  want  of  finish : 
but  when  he  does  himself  justice,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  his  numbers  are  un- 
surpassed by  anything  of  the  kind  in  the 
language.  His  employment  (in  the 
"  Hymn  to  St.  Teresa  "  and  its  compan- 
ion, "The  Bleeding  Heart")  of  those 
mixed  four-foot  Iambics  and  Trochaics  so 
often  favored  by  modern  poets,  marks  an 
era  in  the  metre.  Coleridge  (in  the 
"  Biographia  Literaria")  adopts  an  ex- 
cellent expression  to  distinguish  measures 
which  follow  the  changes  of  the  sense  from 
those  which  are  regulated  by  a  pendulum- 
like beat  or  tune  —  however  new  the  tune 
—  overpowering  all  intrinsic  variety. 
The  former  he  styles  numerous  versifica- 
tion. Crashaw  is  beautifully  numerous, 
attaining  the  most  delicate  music  by  veer- 
ing pause  and  modulation  —  a 

"  Miser  of  sound  and  syllable,  no  less 
Than   Midas  of  his  coinage." 

154 


CRASHAW 

We     have     said     ad\  ised]  V     that     the     '"St. 

Teresa"  marks  an  era  in  its  metre.  For 
Coleridge  was  largely  indebted  to  it,  and 
acknowledged  his  debt.  He  had.  he  said, 
those  lines  constantly  in  his  mind  when 
writing  the  second  part  of  "  Christabel  " ; 
if,  indeed,  by  some  inexplicable  mental 
process,  it  did  not  suggest  the  first  idea  of 
the  whole  poem.  The  student  who  reads  in 
the  light  of  this  declaration  those  portions 
of  the  second  part  which  are  composed 
in  ordinary  couplet-rhyming  Tetram- 
eters, Iambic  and  Trochaic,  will  perceive 
how  true  it  is.  Both  expression  and  metre 
have  manifestly  been  closely  studied  by  the 
modern  writer.  The  diction  of  the  two 
poets  is  here  markedly  akin  ;  and  the  versi- 
fication is  not  so  much  akin  as  identical. 
The  greatest  metrical  master  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  was  for  once  content  to 
imitate  such  exquisite  lines  as  these:  — 

Scarce  has  she  learned  to  lisp  the  name 
Of   martyr;   yet    she   thinks    il    shame 
Life  should   so  lonjjj  play   with   that   breath 

155 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Which  spent  can  buy  so  brave  a  death. 

She  never  undertook  to  know 

What  Death  with  Love  should  have  to  do; 

Nor  has  she  e'er  yet  understood 

Why  to  show  love  she  should  shed  blood; 

Yet  though  she  cannot  tell  you  why, 

She  can  love,  and  she  can  die. 

Coleridge  has  done  as  well;  better  even 
Coleridge  could  not  do.  For  fuller  convic- 
tion, compare  the  lines  which  we  are  about 
to  quote  with  those  lines  on  the  dreaming 
Christabel  terminating  in  the  lovely  phrase 

'  Both  blue  eyes,  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear." 

This  phrase  is  essentially  identical  in  its 
art  with  a  line  of  Crashaw's  which  we 
italicise.  Each  is  singularly  felicitous  in 
its  expression  ;  and  each,  if  carried  one  step 
further,  would  have  been  a  conceit. 

All  thy  old  woes  shall  now  smile  on  thee, 
And  thy  pains   sit  bright  on   thee, 
All  thy  sorrows  here  shall  shine, 

156 


CRASHAW 

All  thy  sufferings  be  divine: 

Tears  shall   take  comfort,  and  turn  gems, 
And   wrongs   repent   to  diadems. 

Let  us  end  by  quoting  in  its  entirety 
Crashaw's  second  and  very  charming  love- 
poem,  the  "  Horoscope."  It  is  more 
nearly  free  from  conceit  than  any  other 
complete  poem.  Indeed  the  very  motive 
of  it  is  so  essentially  a  slight  fantasy 
that  a  little  fantasy  in  the  execution 
appears  almost  permissible,  because  har- 
monious with  the  central  idea.  The  last 
two  stanzas  of  the  fanciful  trifle  could 
not  well  be  improved  in  their  airy  grace: 
the  subtle  music  and  the  subtle  expression 
seem  to  beget  each  other:  — 

Love,  brave  Virtue's  younger  brother, 
Erst   hath    made    my    heart    a    mother; 
She  consults  the  conscious  spheres 
To  calculate   her   young  son's   years. 
She  asks,  if  sad,  or  saving  powers, 
Gave  omen  to  his   infant   hours; 
She  asks   each    star   that    then   stood   by. 
If  poor  Love  shall  live  or  die. 
157 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Ah,  my  heart,  is  that  the  way? 

Are  these  the  beams  that  rule  thy  day? 

Thou  know'st  a  face  in  whose  each  look 

Beauty   lays   ope   Love's   fortune- book ; 

On  whose  fair  revolutions  wait 

The  obsequious  motions  of  man's  fate: 

Ah,  my  heart,  her  eyes  and  she 

Have  taught  thee  new  astrology; 

Howe'er  Love's  native  hours  were  set, 

Whatever  starry  synod  met  — 

'Tis  in  the  mercy  of  her  eye 

If  poor  Love  shall  live  or  die. 

If  those  sharp  rays  putting  on 
Points  of  death,  bid  Love  be  gone: 
(Though  the  Heavens  in  council  sat 
To   crown   an   uncontrolled   fate, 
Though  their  best  aspects  twined  upon 
The   kindest   constellation, 
Cast  amorous  glances  on  his  birth, 
And  whispered  the  confederate  Earth 
To  pave  his  paths  with  all  the  good 
That  warms  the  bed  of  youth  and  blood) 
Love  hath  no  plea  against  her  eye: 
Beauty    frowns,   and    Love   must   die. 

158 


CRASHAW 

But  if  her  milder  influence  move, 
And  gild  the  hopes  of  humble  Love: 
(Though    Heaven's   inauspicious   eye 
Lay  black  on  Love's  nativity ; 
Though  every  diamond  in  Jove's  crown 
Fixed  his  forehead  to  a  frown:) 
Her  eye  a  strong  appeal  can   give, 
Beauty  smiles,  and  Love  shall  live. 

O,  if  Love  shall  live,  O  where 
But  in  her  eye,  or  in  her  ear, 
In  her  breast,  or  in  her  breath, 
Shall  I  hide  poor  Love  from  Death? 
For  in  the  life  ought  else  can  give, 
Love  shall  die,  although  he  live. 

Or,  if  Love  shall  die,  O  where 
But  in   her  eye,  or  in  her  ear, 
In  her  breath,  or  in  her  breast, 
Shall    I   build  his   funeral  nest? 
While  Love  shall  thus  entombed  lie, 
Love  shall  live,  although  he  die ! 

The  melody   of  those  two  final  stanzas  is 
bewitching.     Were    six    more    delectably- 

modulated   lines   ever  written    for  the  rav- 

159 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

ishment  of  all  sensitive  ears?  No  less 
noticeable  are  they  as  an  example  of  de- 
lightful repetition,  in  which  (as  in  nearly 
all  judicious  echoing)  the  verbal  repetition 
corresponds  to  a  repetition  of  idea.  So 
artfully  precise  is  the  iteration  of  cadence, 
that  in  the  respectively  parallel  lines  of  the 
two  verses,  the  very  position  of  the  caesurae 
is  exactly  preserved. 

Those  who  are  able  and  willing  to  sift  the 
gold  in  so  rich  a  stream  as  that  from  whose 
sands  we  have  washed  these  few  handfuls, 
will  assuredly  experience  no  disappointment 
in  the  work  of  the  Catholic  whom  even  the 
Protestant  Cowley  could  address  as  "  Poet 
and  Saint." 


160 


AUBREY  DE  VERE 

THE  death  of  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vcre  re- 
moves from  us  not  only  a  poet  of 
distinction,  but  the  last  link  with  the  poetic 
past  of  the  early  nineteenth  century  —  a 
poet  who  held  memories  of  conversations 
with  Wordsworth,  and  had  received  com- 
mendation  from  the  lips  of  the  men  who 
revolutionised  English  poetry.  Words- 
worth was  one  of  those  who  seldom  com- 
mend any  poetry  which  is  not  akin  to  their 
own,  and  it  can  readily  lie  surmised,  there- 
fore, in  what  school  the  young  poet  grad- 
uated. Shelley  influenced  him,  as  is  visible 
in  his  first  poem,  The  Search  after  Pro.scr- 
phic;  and  he  profoundly  admired  Cole- 
ridge,  but  the  supreme  planet  was  Words- 
worth. To  that  tradition  he  remained 
unswervingly  faithful  through  his  long  life 

161 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

and  all  changes  of  poetic  fashion:  when 
other  gods  were  enthroned  in  the  market- 
place his  worship  was  unchanged.  He 
lived  to  see  the  Wordsworthian  tradition 
revived  by  Mr.  William  Watson,  and  to 
receive  the  homage  of  that  poet.  But  if 
Mr.  Watson  was  the  last,  he  was  not  the 
first  poet  to  render  such  homage.  Landor 
hailed  the  rise  of  a  new  poet  in  some  char- 
acteristic verses  when  the  Search  after 
Proserpine  appeared ;  Sir  Henry  Taylor 
was  not  less  emphatic  in  his  admiration ; 
and  at  a  later  day  so  totally  antagonistic 
a  poet  as  Mr.  Swinburne  wrote  in 
generous  praise  of  him.  The  praise  was 
the  more  generous  because  De  Vere, 
never  having  been  a  fashion,  then  and 
throughout  the  close  of  his  career  had  be- 
come vieux  jeu  to  the  modern  critic.  Yet 
Mr.  Swinburne  does  not  praise  ignorantly, 
and  it  may  be  surmised  that  Aubrey  de 
Vere  does  not  deserve  the  tranquil  neglect 
into  which  he  had  passed. 

"  Graceful  " —  that    most    damning    of 
162 


AUBREY   1)1.   vi  RE 

faint  praises—  was  the  adjective  stocked 
for  him  by  the  critics  on  the  rare  occasions 

when  he  came  before  them  in  the  latter 
years.  It  is  about  as  inappropriate  an 
adjective    as     could    be    affixed    to    him. 

Neither  in  his  best  nor  his  worst  (and  it 
may  be  admitted  that  his  later  work  showed 
him  at  his  weakest)  could  anything  so  light 
be  predicated  of  his  general  manner.  His 
faults  and  his  merits  were  mainly  those  of 
the  Wordsworthian  school,  and  no  one  has 
yet  thought  of  calling  Wordsworth  grace- 
ful. A  great  poet  Aubrey  de  Vere  was 
not.  One  who  follows  a  master  with  such 
unswerving  fidelity  as  he  followed  the  Rydal 
singer  must  be  content  with  the  lower  praise 
of  a  derivative  poet.  The  Wordsworth 
whom  he  followed  was  not  the  Wordsworth 
of  the  simple  lyrics,  with  their  close  touch 
upon  the  human  heart,  but  the  later  Words 
worth,  who  had  openly  broken  in  practice 
with  his  own  theory  of  poetic  diction  — 
he  of  the  austerely  grand  odes,  with  their 
leaven   of   classic    English    phrase,   and   he 

Hi:; 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

also  of  the  sonnets.  Even  on  this  side  Mr. 
de  Vere  never  reached  or  attempted  any 
of  those  magical  intimacies  which  in  a  line 
or  a  passage  of  the  elder  poet  suddenly 
pierce  the  soul  or  thrill  us  with  a  sense 
of  things  divinely  remote.  Such  a  flash 
as 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  bring 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears, 

was  beyond  him.  Of  warmth  he  was  cap- 
able, especially  in  his  younger  days,  but 
not  of  pathos  or  subtle  suggestion.  His 
general  manner,  it  must  be  owned,  was 
somewhat  coldly  grave.  This  was  intensi- 
fied by  the  defect  which  he  shared  with  all 
Wordsworthian  poets  and  Wordsworth  him- 
self; he  was  hopelessly  prolix,  quite  un- 
aware when  he  was  not  inspired,  and  left 
his  true  poetry  to  welter  amidst  masses  of 
dignifiedly  prosaic  verse.  More  of  a  con- 
scious artist  than  his  master,  he  never  fell 
into  such  bathetic  depths  as  did  Words- 
worth ;  but  neither  did  he  soar  so  high,  and 

164 


AL'IJHKY   Dl.   VERE 

lie  could  be  nearly  as  dull.  Yet  the  Shel- 
leiaD  influence  —  which  is  good  for  too 
respectable  poets  —  touched  him  at  times 
with  a  lightness  unknown  to  the  Lake  poet. 
It  was  in  such  a  lyric  mood  thai  he  cap- 
tured Mr.  Swinburne's  sympathy.  Finally, 
when  his  best  is  observingly  distilled,  if  is 
not  onlv  very  good  indeed,  but  in  one  or 
two  instances  surprisingly  high.  One  of 
his  odes  is  fine,  with  passages  of  absolute 
grandeur;  and  another,  though  in  need  of 
compression,  not  much  below  it.  Some  of 
his  sonnets  arc  only  not  among  the  best 
in  that  kind. 

It  is,  indeed,  by  the  best  of  his  lyrical 
pieces  that  he  should  be  judged,  rather  than 
by  the  long  narrative  or  dramatic  poems 
on  which  he  expended  so  much  labor.  Of 
one  little  lyric,  Mr.  Swinburne  has  said  thai 
it  was  the  only  poem  not  by  Shelley  which 
he  might  conceivably  mistake  for  Shelley. 
Mr.  Swinburne  is  not  one  to  err  in  praise, 
and  assuredly  the  poem  deserves  it  :  but  the 
terms  of  that  praise  are  api   to  be  a  little 

165 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

unmeasured,  as  the  reader  may  think  them 
here : 

When  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow, 

"  Come,  and  I   will  play  with  thee:  " — 

He  is  near  me  now  all  day; 

And  at  night  returns  to  say, 

"  I   will  come  again  to-morrow, 

I  will  come  and  stay  with  thee." 

Through  the  woods  we  walk  together; 
His  soft  footsteps  rustle  nigh  me; 
To   shield  an   unregarded   head, 
He  hath  built  a  winter  shed; 
And  all  night  in  rainy  weather, 

I  hear  his  gentle  breathings  by  me. 

That  is  a  very  charming  lyric,  all  great 
comparisons  apart.  Beautiful,  with  a 
grace  of  tenderness  which  goes  near  to  that 
pathos  denied  to  Mr.  de  Vere,  is  "  Death 
in  Child-birth  " : 

Sweet  Martyr  of  thine  Infant  and  thy  Love, 

O  what  a  death  is  thine ! 
Is  this  to  die?     Then,  Love!  henceforth  ap- 
prove 

166 


AUBREY  DE  VERE 

This,  this  of  .ill  thy  gifts  the  most  divine. 
Toll  no  death-bell!     .Matrons,  co\m- 
1 1,  r  white  bed  \\  iili  flowers  all  <>\  i  r; 
With  the  dark,  cool  violets  swathing 

A  full  bosom  mother-hearted; 
Under   lily   shadows  bathing 

Brows  whose  angvisi)   hath  departed. 
Life  with  others,   Death  with  thee 
Plays  a  grave  game  smilingly. 

I  take  the  liberty  to  close  the  poem  where 
I  would  that  Mr.  de  Verc  had  closed  it. 
Unfortunately,  with  an  ill- judgment  too 
characteristic  of  his  school,  he  follows  what 
should  have  been  a  lovely  close  by  four 
poor  and  commonplace  lines,  ruining  the 
effect.  Few  poets  of  this  later  day  would 
make  such  an  error  in  taste.  It  is  the 
Elizabethans  who  have  inspired  this  lyric; 
but  be  is  altogether  Wordsworthian  in  this 
example  of  bis  sonnets : 

For  we  the  mighty  mountain-plains  have  trod 
Both  in  the  glow  of  sunset  and  sunrise; 
And  lighted  by  the  moon  of  Southern  skies! 


167 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

The    snow-white    torrent    of    the    thundering 

flood 
We  two  have  watched  together:     In  the  wood 
We  two  have  felt  the  warm  tears  dim  our  eyes 
While  zephyrs  softer  than  an  infant's  sighs 
Ruffled  the  light  air  of  our  solitude! 
O    Earth,     maternal     Earth,     and    thou,     O 

Heaven, 
And    Night   first-born,   who    now,   e'en   now, 

dost  waken 
The  host  of  stars,  this  constellated  train! 
Tell  me  if  those  can  ever  be  forgiven, 
Those  abject,  who  together  have  partaken 
These  Sacraments  of  Nature  —  and  in  vain ! 

"  Zephyrs  softer  than  an  infant's  sighs  " 
one  could  well  have  spared ;  but  many  such 
conventional  lines  would  be  atoned  for  by 
the  splendid  sestet  of  this  sonnet,  worthy 
of  Wordsworth  at  his  best.  In  a  vein 
hardly  less  fine  are  parts  of  "  The  Year 
of  Sorrow,"  a  series  of  poems  on  an  Irish 
famine-year,  which  calls  the  snow  to  bury 
the  outcasts : 


168 


AUBREY  DE   \ TIM 

Bend  o'er  them,  white-robed  Amlyli  ! 

Put    forth   thine   hand   from  cloud  and  mist, 
And  minister  the  last  sad  rite, 

Where  altar  there  is  none,  nor  priest. 

But  Mr.  de  Yen:  rises  to  his  most  imasina- 
tive  heights  in  the  "  Ode  to  the  Daffodil  " 
and  the  "  Autumnal  Ode."  That  to  the 
daffodil : 

A  sacristan  whose  gusty  taper 

Flashes  through  earliest  morning  vapour, 

would  bear  compacting,  but  is  full  of  fine 
passages  —  not  least  of  which  is  the  close: 

When   in   her   vidua!   chastity   the   year 
With  frozen  memories  of  the  sacred  past 
Her  doors  and    heart  makes   fast, 
And  loves  no  flower  save  those  that  deck  the 
bier: — 
Ere  yet  the  blossomed   sycamore 
With   golden  surf  is  curdled  o'er; 
Ere  yet  the  birch  against  the  blue 
Her  silken  tissue  weaves  anew: 
Thou    com'st    while,    meteor-like    'mid    fens, 
the  weed 

169 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Swims,  wan  in  light;   while   sleet-showers 

whitening  glare; — 
Weeks  ere,  by  river  brims,  new  furred,  the 

reed 
Leans  its  green  javelin  level  in  the  air. 

Child  of  the  strong  and  strenuous  East ! 
Now  scattered  wide  o'er  dusk  hill  bases, 
Now  massed  in  broad,  illuminate  spaces; — 

Torchbearer  at  a  wedding-feast 
Whereof  thou  mayst  not  be  partaker, 
But  mime,  at  most,  and  merrymaker; — 
Phosphor   of   an   ungrateful  sun 
That  rises  but  to  bid  thy  lamp  begone:  — 

Farewell !     I  saw 
Writ  large  on  woods  and  lawns  to-day  that 

Law 
Which  back  remands  thy  race  and  thee 
To  hero-haunted  shades  of  dark  Persephone. 

The  mixture  of  Shelleian  fantasy  with  a 
certain  classic  dignity  and  composure  is 
admirable.  But  yet  finer  is  the  "  Autumnal 
Ode  "  in  both  qualities.     It  sings  of : 

The  nymphs  that  urge  the  seasons  on  their 
round, 


170 


AUBREY  DE  VERE 

Tin y  that  drag  April  by  the  rain-bright  hair 

O'er   March's   frosty   bound, 
They  by  whose  warm  and  furtive  hand  un- 
wound 
The  cestus  falls  from  May's  new-wedded 
breast. 
Of  the  wind-worked  ruin  of  the  trees: 

Yon  poplar-grove  is  troubled  !     Bright  and 
bold 
Babbled  his  cold  leaves  in  the  July  breeze. 
As  though  above  our  heads  a  runnel  rolled: 
His  mirth  is  o'er;  subdued  by  stern  Octo- 
ber 
He  counts  his  lessening  wealth,  and,  sadly 
sober, 
Tinkles  his  querulous  tablets  of  wan  gold. 

I  restore  the  excellent  original  word,  for 
(again  ill-judging!)  the  poet  altered 
"  querulous  "  to  "  minute  tablets  " —  a  sore 
mishap!  Then,  ascending  to  the  thought 
of  death  and  the  hereafter,  he  sings  of 
those  who  climb : 

The  penitential  mountain's  ebon  stair: 
The    earth-shadow    clips    the    halo    round 
their  hair: 

171 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

And  as  lone  outcasts  watch  a  moon  that  wanes 
Receding  slowly  o'er  their  native  plains, 
Thus   watch   they   wistful,    something    far 
but  fair. 

Lastly,  he  ends  in  a  magnificent  and  organ- 
rolling  close : 

—  Hark!   the  breeze  increases: 
The  sunset  forests,  catching  sudden  fire, 
Flash,  swell,  and  sing,  a  million-organed 
choir : 
Roofing  the  West,  rich  clouds  in  glittering 
fleeces 
O'er-arch  ethereal  spaces  and  divine 
Of  heaven's  clear  hyaline. 
No    dream    is    this !     Beyond    that    radiance 
golden 
God's  sons   I   see,   His  armies  bright  and 
strong, 
The   ensanguined   Martyrs   here   with   palms 
high  holden, 
The  Virgins  there,  a  lily-lifting  throng! 
The     Splendours     nearer     draw.     In     choral 
blending 
The  Prophets'   and  the  Apostles'  chant  I 
hear ; 

172 


AUBREY   DE   YKK1. 

I  see  the  City  of  the  Just  descending, 

With  gates  of  pearl  and  diamond  hastions 
sheer. 
The  walls  are  agate  and  chalcedony; 

On  jacinth   street   and  jasper   parapet 
The  unwa   ing  light  is  light  of  Deity, 

Not  beam  of  lessening  moon  or  suns  that 
set. 
That  undeciduous  forestry  of  spires 

Lets  fall  no  leaf!  those  lights  can  never 
range: 
Saintly  fruitions  and  divine  desires 

Are    blended    there    in    rapture    without 
change. 
Man  was  not  made  for  things  that  leave  us, 

For  that  which   goeth   and  returneth, 
For  hopes  that  lift  us  yet  deceive  us, 

For  love  that  wears  a  smile  yet  mourneth ; 
Not  for  fresh   forests   from  the  dead  leaves 
springing, 
The  cyclic  re-creation  which,  at  best, 
Yields   us  —  betrayal   still   to   promise   cling- 
ing— 
But    tremulous    shadows   of  the    Realm   of 

Rest: 
For  things  immortal    Man  w as  made, 
173 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

God's  image,  latest  from  His  hand, 
Co-heir    with    Him    Who    in    Man's    flesh 

arrayed, 
Holds  o'er  the  worlds  the  Heavenly-Human 
wand: 
His  portion  this  —  sublime 
To  stand  where  access   none   hath   Space   or 

Time, 
Above  the  starry  host,  the  Cherub  band, 
To   stand  —  to   advance  —  and,   after  all,  to 
stand ! 

Comment  on  this  is  needless.  Had  Aubrey 
de  Vere  always,  or  even  often,  been  thus 
inspired,  one  would  not  have  denied  him 
the  title  of  a  great  poet.  After  this  it 
were  superfluous  to  dwell  on  those  longer 
poems,  narrative  or  dramatic,  which  leave 
as  a  whole  but  a  languid  impression, 
despite  beautiful  bursts  of  incidental 
poetry.  His  title  to  the  name  of  poet  is 
in  such  things  as  I  have  quoted.  Only  the 
blind  can  read  and  doubt. 


174 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

IN  Mr.  W.  E.  Henley  has  passed  away 
a  brilliant  man  of  letters,  a  distin- 
guished poet  and  essayist, who  never  gained 
(how  should  he  in  this  our  day?)  his  due 
recognition  from  the  dormant  many, 
while  from  the  bright  and  alert  few  he 
was  accorded  eagerly  almost  more  than 
his  due  recognition.  By  the  intellectual 
flower  of  young  England,  so  much  of 
which  passed  under  his  personal  influence 
and  control,  he  was  worshipped  the  other 
side  of  idolatry.  To  all  these,  to  those  who 
clustered  round  the  defiant  banner  of  the 
"  National  Observer,"  and  to  most  young 
minds  for  whom  literature  mattered  ex- 
ceedingly in  those  days,  Mr.  Henley  was 
the  Viking  chief  of  letters,  whom  all  de- 
lighted    to     follow,     whose    praise    alone 

175 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

mattered,  whose  example  set  the  mark  for 
rejoicing  emulation.  It  was  often  hard 
in  those  days  (however  clear  the  distinc- 
tion may  have  become  since)  to  tell  the 
work  of  the  gifted  follower  from  that  of 
the  magnetic  master ;  and  probably  it  was 
the  nearest  thing  which  English  letters 
has  seen  to  the  zealotry  of  the  French 
Romantics  for  the  magisterial  ascendance 
of  Victor  Hugo. 

Whether  Mr.  Henley  were  greater  in 
prose  or  verse  it  would  go  hard  to  say: 
though  one  may  surely  foretell  that  the 
perdurable  quality  of  poetry  will  in  the 
end  take  revenge  for  its  tardier  instant 
appeal.  Yet,  because  brilliant  English 
and  brilliant  critical  impressionism  (ap- 
preciation is  the  commodious  word  for  it) 
do  make  some  swift  appeal  to  all  with 
any  lettered  sense,  we  may  consider  first 
the  prose  of  this  man  with  the  rare  dual 
gift.  Whichever  way  you  take  him,  the 
genius  is  unmistakable.  Appreciation 
(briefly)    resides    in    attempting    to    dis- 

176 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEl 

cover  what  your  author  has  aimed  to  com- 
pass ;  and  then  setting  forth  the  impres- 
sion yourself  retain  of  his  success  or 
failure  to  succeed  in  the  elected  aim.  It 
is  obvious  that  your  achievement  will 
be  very  much  in  the  ratio  of  your 
sympathetic  gift ;  as  that  is  limited  your 
achievement  will  be  limited,  as  that  is 
comprehensive  your  achievement  will  be 
comprehensive,  as  that  is  subtle  or  deli- 
cate your  achievement  will  be  subtle  or 
delicate.  Now  Mr.  Henley's  sympathy  is 
a  thing  very  far  from  comprehensive ;  yet 
it  were  merely  unjust  to  call  it  narrow. 
It  is  wide,  and  heartily  wide,  but  defec- 
tive —  curiously,  unexpectedly,  perversely 
defective.  It  is  comparable  to  the  Scot- 
tish coast;  an  ample  coast-line,  yet  jag- 
gedly  broken,  abruptly  and  bafflingly 
discontinuous  —  in  the  racy  Shakespciv.m 
phrase,  nook-shottcn  —  which  juts  forth 
innumerable  bold  projections,  and  is 
breached  as  brusquely  with  countless 
ragged  fissures.     The  projections  are  the 

177 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

keen  saliences  of  Mr.  Henley's  righteous 
perception ;  the  fissures  the  startling  rifts 
and  unforeseeable  lapses  in  that  percep- 
tion. When  he  has  carried  you  off  your 
feet  with  his  inevitable  Tightness,  he  is 
most  like  to  stagger  you  back  to  them  by 
his  wilful  and  confident  wrongness.  For 
like  Ruskin,  to  whom  he  is  the  antithesis 
in  many  things,  he  is  always  certain,  and 
never  more  certain  than  when  he  is  most 
unsafe. 

He  is  not,  therefore,  a  critic  to  whom 
you  can  placidly  yield  yourself;  but  he 
is  a  critic  invariably  pungent,  vital,  ar- 
resting ;  who  carries  you  on  by  storm  and 
shock,  whose  mis  judgments  are  more  stim- 
ulant than  other  men's  correctness.  Since 
the  force  of  his  statement  is  so  great 
you  are  electrified  into  protest  against  his 
error,  and  the  necessity  of  protest  compels 
you  to  think.  You  cannot  remain  indif- 
ferent before  this  meteoric  reviewer. 

And  that  comes  not  alone  of  his  mental 
vigor  and   individuality,  but   of  his  mar- 

178 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLE1 

vellous  style.  It  is  a  style  artificial,  after 
its  kind,  as  that  Goliath  of  the  Philistines, 
Macaulay;  yet  bo  pulsating  with  impulsive 
energy  that  want  of  nature  is  the  last  thing 
you  have  breath  to  think  of.  A  world  of 
cultured  study  has  -one  to  the  forging  of 
the  weapon;  bickering  with  epigram  and 
antithesis,  glittering  with  the  elaborate  re- 
search of  phrase  which  betokens  his  poetic 
discipline,  poised  shapen  in  its  sentences 
with  the  artful  and  artistic  hand  of  a  con- 
summate master;  vet  the  fire,  the  off-hand 
virility  of  the  man  enable  him  to  wield 
it  with  all  the  ease  and  nature  imaginable. 
It  glances  with  the  swift  and  restless  bril- 
liance of  a  leaping  salmon  in  sunlight. 
Air.  Henley's  style  has  almost  every  qual- 
ity, in  fact,  except  repose  and  the  powers 
dependent  on  repose dignity,  for  in- 
stance, or  simplicity;  just  as  his  criticism 
misses  the  crowning  excellence  of  sympa 
thetic  completion  and  the  balance  which 
comes  of  calm  judgment.  But  had  he 
these    qualities    we    should    not    have    our 

179 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Henley :  they  are  scarce  compatible  with 
the  arrowy  scintillation  and  reinless  elan 
of  his  writing.  In  his  most  characteristic 
and  high  wrought  passages  antithesis, 
epigram,  audacious  paradox  fly  like  scud 
on  the  racing  wave  of  the  sentence.  With 
all  this,  though  Mr.  Henley  learned  many 
of  his  ai'ts  from  France,  he  is  ever  male, 
sinewy,  and  English  in  essential  quality, 
bearing  his  British  heritage  in  the  bones 
of  his  style. 

With  such  character,  and  such  execu- 
tive power  to  manifest  it,  he  is  naturally 
best  where  he  is  most  one  at  heart  with 
the  man  he  criticises  (for  the  overwhelm- 
ing bulk  of  his  scant  and  treasurable 
prose-work  consists  of  reviews  —  preg- 
nant and  brief).  Out  of  the  various  and 
cosmopolitan  critiques  in  "  Views  and  Re- 
views "  ( chiefly  French  and  English  how- 
ever) one  would  pick  as  triumphant  and 
magisterial  Henley  such  things  as  the 
Labiche,  Rabelais,  Berlioz,  Hugo,  Mere- 
dith,    and     Disraeli.     Perhaps     specially 

180 


WILLIAM   ERNEST  HENLEY 

the  Last  three:  they  have  all  the  very 
qualities  and  defects  which  might  endear 
them  to  Mr.  Henley.  Disraeli,  for  in- 
stance.  The  unconventional  Tory  appeals 
to  the  unconventional  Tory;  the  master 
of  antithesis,  epigram,  and  paradox  to  a 
master  of  epigram,  paradox,  and  antith- 
esis; the  brilliant  unrest  of  the  one  to 
the  brilliant  unrest  of  the  other;  the  states- 
man's intolerant  scorn  of  commonplace  t" 
the  writer's  intolerant  scorn  of  common 
place;  even  the  masterful  egoism  of 
Disraeli  to  a  certain  masterful  egoism  of 
I  bide}'.  You  would  expect  a  victorious 
**  critique,"  and  you  have  a  victorious 
critique.  There  are  no  lacimae  in  judg- 
ment; the  reviewer  is  with  his  subject  to 
the  marrow ;  and  you  have  the  very  Hen- 
ley at  his  best. 

Flashing  insight,  keen  unraveling  of 
vices  from  merits,  language  rejoicing  in  its 
own  point,  purity,  and  ebullience  of  re- 
sourceful strength.  Elsewhere  you  stum- 
ble over  fads,  blindnesses,  wilful  crotchets. 

181 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

In  such  essays  as  we  have  named,  you  are 
left  to  unhindered  enjoyment  and  wonder. 
As  a  poet,  Mr.  Henley  falls  into  two 
chief  periods.  He  gained  fame  with  "  A 
Book  of  Verses,"  and  mostly  with  two 
sections  of  it ;  the  "  Hospital  Poems,"  be- 
cause nothing  like  them  had  been  known 
in  English,  the  "  Bric-a-Brac,"  because 
very  much  like  them  was  known  in  Eng- 
lish. The  latter  fell  in  with  a  dominant 
fashion,  the  imitation  of  the  artificial 
forms  of  old  French  verse ;  the  former 
set  a  fashion.  The  "  Hospital  Poems " 
were  in  a  style  drawn  from  French  ex- 
emplars; but  (as  we  have  said)  it  was  a 
style  unexampled  in  our  own  poetry,  and 
had  the  immediate  success  of  novelty  in 
addition  to  that  justly  earned  by  the 
power  of  the  verse  itself.  Novelty  is  by 
no  means  a  usual  poetic  advantage  in 
England,  but  in  this  case  the  novelty  was 
of  a  kind  universally  comprehensible ;  it 
lay  in  assimilating  poetry  to  prose  —  and 
that  blessed  day  of  Hie  Lord  when  poetry 

182 


WILLIAM    ERNES  r   II!  M  I'.V 

shall  be  prose  is  a  consummation  for  which 
the  greal  heart  of  the  British  public  ever 
yearns.  In  so  far  as  it  colorably  re- 
sembled prose,  Mr.  Henley's  Hospital  ex- 
iment  was  therefore  inevitably  popular; 
in  so  far  as  it  distinctly,  and  none  the  less, 
remained  poetry,  the  public  did  qo1  know 
that  —  did  not  nose  the  contraband  ware, 
and  allowed  it  to  pass  unsuspectingly. 
Willi  a  leaven  of  sonnets,  these  poems 
are  in  rhymeless  lyric  metres  of  various 
shapes,  fashioned  with  cunning  original- 
ity, for  their  peculiar  function  and  pecul- 
iar content.  Often  but  slightly  more 
than  squared  and  measured-off  prose  in 
their  movement,  they  (it  exactly  the  real- 
ism of  the  stj  le,M  hich  admit  -  a  larger  infu  - 
of  every-day  and  colloquial  idioms  or 
diction  than  poetry  had  ventured  on  be- 
fore. The  marrow  of  poetry  is  subtly 
preserved  by  the  exceeding  fitness  and 
closi  of  phrase,  the  intimacy  of  emo- 

tion;  while  the   expression    rises    at    need 
into  the  higher  reaches  of  poetry. 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Only  Mr.  Henley  had  the  secret  of  this 
peculiar  combination ;  which  after  all, 
while,  (apart  from  the  sonnets)  the  shape 
looks  so  formless,  is  really  dependent  on 
an  admirably  sure  instinct  of  form.  The 
marvellous  sonnet  descriptive  of  Stevenson 
(which  is  in  the  style  of  the  Hospital 
poems,  though  it  has  but  an  accidental 
connection  with  them)  is  really  as  much 
matter  of  perfect  form  and  phrase  as  the 
Bric-a-Brac  poems,  which  are  avowed  ex- 
ercises in  the  most  artificial  kinds  of  form. 
Hence  it  is  not  surprising  that  Mr.  Hen- 
ley's success  in  these  is  as  perfect  as  in 
the  rugged  realism  of  the  Hospital  sec- 
tion. They  are  handled  with  a  lightness, 
a  deftness,  which  naturalises  this  alien  and 
unnatural  form  as  few  of  its  English  dev- 
otees have  succeeded  in  doing.  The  bal- 
lade "  Of  a  Toyokuni  Color-Print "  with 
its  refrain,  "  I  loved  you  once  in  old 
Japan  " —  sketched  with  sparing,  grace- 
ful lines  which  are  themselves  Japanese  in 
quality  : — 

184 


WILLIAM   ERNEST  HENLEY 

Clear  shim-  the  hills;  the  rice-fields  round 
Two  cranes  are  circling;  sleepy  and  slow, 
A  blue  canal  the  lake's  blue  bound 
Breaks  at  the  bamboo-bridge;  and  lo! 
Touched  with  the  sundown's  spirit  and  glow, 
I   see  you  turn,  with   flirted    fan, 
Against  the  plum-tree's  bloomy  snow.     .     .     . 
I  loved  you  once  in  old  Japan! 

That,  or  the  Double  Ballade  "Of  Life 
and  Fate,"  as  sprightly  and  charming  a 
dance  of  words  as  may  be  penned  in  its 
gay  trifling,  show  what  a  master  of  verse  at 
play  was  the  stern  poet  of  "  In  Hospital," 
with  its  manner  and  metres  grim,  bare, 
and  saturnine  in  severe  structuralness  as 
the  Hospital  itself. 

Scattered  through  this  volume  were 
strains  of  a  higher  mood,  suggesting  a 
more  inward  poetry  than  the  rest.  But 
as  a  whole,  this  first  book  showed  Mr.  Hen- 
lev  as  a  poet  after  the  Gallic  fashion, 
which  (at  least  till  very  recently,  and  re- 
garding the  general  type  of  the  national 
genius)  is,  like  that  of  the  Greeks,  rather 

185 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

an  artistic  than  a  poetic  fashion  of  song. 
The  French  poetic  genius  has  always  de- 
pended for  excellence  on  formal  and 
structural  perfection,  has  been  a  chiselled 
and  carven  thing.  The  same  reliance  on 
a  severely  architectural  perfection  marked 
the  Greek  poetry:  so  that  Heine  said  there 
was  more  poetry  in  Shakespeare  than  in 
all  the  Greek  poets  together,  except 
Aristophanes.  English  poetry,  on  the 
contrary,  is  the  ideal  of  a  poetry  com- 
pletely distinguished  from  art,  depending 
on  an  inward  and  indescribable  spirit, 
which  perhaps  (though  the  word  breeds 
confusion,  yet  for  lack  of  a  better)  we 
may  call  the  romantic  spirit.  Mr.  Hen- 
ley's first  book  belonged  to  artistic  and 
Gallic  poetry,  an  objective  thing,  a  thing 
of  form  and  carving.  But  the  "  London 
Voluntaries  "  showed  him  as  an  absolutely 
English  poet.  He  had  attained  a  far 
higher  poetry,  full  of  the  romantic  spirit, 
which  animated  and  formed  the  form  in- 

186 


WILLIAM   ERNEST  HENLEY 

-trad  of  depending  on  it.  Need  we  say 
thai  (as  a  matter  of  course)  the  new  hook 
failed  of  the  popularity  gained  by  the  ear 
lier?  The  poems  called  "London  Volun- 
taries" were  the  most  patent  sign  and  re- 
sult of  this  poetic  advance:  it  is  on  these 
and  the  lyrics  which  companioned  them 
that  Mr.  Henley's  final  fame  will  most 
surely  rest.  They  are  in  so-called  "  irreg- 
ular" lyric  metre,  ebbing  and  flowing  with 
the  emotion  itself.  Irregular  it  is  not, 
though  the  law  is  concealed.  Only  a  most 
delicate  response  to  the  behests  of  inspira- 
tion can  make  such  verse  successful.  As 
some  persons  have  an  instinctive  sense  of 
orientation  by  which  they  always  know  the 
quarter  of  the  East,  so  the  poet  with  this 
gift  has  a  subtle  sense  of  hidden  metrical 
law,  and  in  his  most  seeming-vagrant 
metre  revolve-  always  (so  to  speak)  round 
a  felt  though  invisible  centre  of  obedience. 
Mr.  IKnley  has  I  lie  sense  fully.  In  these 
'•  Voluntaries  "   a    rich    and    lovely    verbal 

187 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

magic  is  mated  with  metre  that  comes  and 
goes  like  the  heaving  of  the  Muse's 
bosom  — 

The  ancient  river  singing  as  he  goes 
New-mailed  in  morning  to  the  ancient  Sea. 

Or  again :  — 

The  night  goes  out  like  an  ill-parcelled  fire; 
And,  as  one  lights  a  candle,  it  is  day. 

Such  things  as  these  are  obvious  and 
clamorous  beauties.  But  the  exquisitely 
textured  and  remotely  magical  passages 
which  cannot  be  shut  up  in  a  line  or  two 
— these  we  dare  not  begin  to  quote,  lest 
we  make  no  end.  We  might  venture 
with  — 

The  still,  delicious  night,  not  yet  aware 
In  any  of  her  innumerable  nests 
Of  that  first  sudden  plash  of  dawn, 
Clear,  sapphirine,  luminous,  large. 

But  the  passage  broadens  into  beauty, 
drawing  us  on,  and  we  have  to  stop,  feel- 
ing   that    we    have    been    guilty    of    mere 

188 


\\  II.I.IAM    ERNEST   Hi. M.I   , 

mutilation.  Mr.  Henley's  sense  of  words, 
and  gift  of  conveying  the  inmost  feeling 
of  a  scene,  is  in  these  poems  supreme. 
And  what  shall  one  say  of  "  The  Song 
of  the  Sword,"  which  rings  like  the  cry 
of  the  Viking  Raven  fluttering  her  wings 
for  battle?  What  of  little  lyrics  like 
"  You  played  and  sang  a  snatch  of 
song "  ?  It  conveys  the  very  regret  of 
"  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things."  In  this 
hook  Mr.  Henley,  artist  to  the  last,  has 
touched  the  inner  springs  of  poetry.  If 
his  leading  trait  is  a  rugged  strength  and 
faithfulness  to  the  thing  seen  or  known, 
such  as  looks  from  his  bust  by  Rodin,  he 
lias  also  the  capacity  for  sudden  intimacies 
of  beauty  or  feeling  which  is  the  birthright 
of  strength.  Not  much  more  gravely  and 
poignantly  tender  has  been  written  than 
the  rhymeless  lyric,  ""When  you  wake  in 
your  crib,"  while  the  minor  lyrics  cover 
a  very  various  range  of  quality.  From 
the  direct  truth  of  "  In  Hospital  "  to  the 
gates   of  romance   in   the    Liter  book,  you 

189 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

have  measured  a  compass  very  unique,  and 
this  romance  is  drawn  from  the  stony 
ground  of  London.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it 
is  as  the  poet  of  London  that  he  will  best 
be  remembered. 


100 


POPE 

THERE  was  born  in  eighteenth  cen- 
tury England  a  pale  little  diseased 
wretch  of  a  boy.  Since  it  was  evident  that 
he  would  never  be  fit  for  any  healthy  and 
vigorous  trade,  and  that  he  must  all 
his  life  be  sickly  and  burdensome  to  him- 
self, and  since  it  is  the  usual  way  of  such 
unhappy  beings  to  add  to  their  unhappi- 
ness  by  their  own  perversities  of  choice, 
he  naturally  became  a  poet.  And  after 
living  for  long  in  a  certain  miserable  state 
called  glory,  reviled  and  worshipped  and 
laughed  at  and  courted,  despised  1>\  the 
women  he  loved,  very  ill  looked  after,  amid 
the  fear  and  malignity  of  many  and  the 
affection  of  very  few,  the  wizened  little 
suffering  monstrosity  died,  and  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  by  way  of  encour- 

191 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

aging  others  to  follow  in  his  footsteps. 
And  though  a  large  number  of  others  have 
done  so  with  due  and  proper  misfortune, 
in  all  the  melancholy  line  there  is,  perhaps, 
no  such  destined  a  wretch  as  Alexander 
Pope.  What  fame  can  do  to  still  the  crav- 
ings of  such  a  poor  prodigal  of  song,  in 
the  beggarly  raiment  of  his  tattered  body, 
that  it  did  for  him.  The  husks  of  renown 
he  had  in  plenty,  and  had  them  all  his  life, 
as  no  other  poet  has  had.  But  Voltaire 
testified  that  the  author  of  that  famous 
piece  of  philosophy,  "  Whatever  is,  is 
right,"  was  the  most  miserable  man  he  had 
ever  known. 

This  king  of  the  eighteenth  century  is 
still  the  king  of  the  eighteenth  century  by 
general  consent.  Dryden  was  a  greater 
poet,  meo  judicio,  but  he  did  not  represent 
the  eighteenth  century  so  well  as  Pope.  All 
that  was  elegant  and  airy  in  the  polished 
artificiality  of  that  age  reaches  its  apothe- 
osis in  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock."  It  is 
Pope's   masterpiece,    a   Watteau    in   verse. 

192 


POPE 

The  poetry  of  manners  could  no  further  go 
than  in  this  boudoir  epic,  unmatched  in  any 
literature.     It  is  useless,  I  may  lure  Nay. 
to    renew    the    old    dispute    whether    Pope 
wa>  a  poet.     Call  his  verse  poetry  or  what 
you   will,   it    is   work    in    verse   which   could 
not  have  been   done   in   prose,  and,  of  its 
kind,  never  equalled.      Then  the  sylph  ma 
chinery   in  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock ':    is 
undoubted   work   of   fancy :   the   fairyland 
of   powder  and   patches,  "  A   Midsummer 
Night's  Dream"'  seen  through  chocolate 
fumes.     The  "  Essay  on  .Man  "  is  noughl 
to  us  nowadays,  as  a  whole.      It  has  bril 
liant    artificial    passages.     It    has    homely 
aphorisms  such  as  only  Pope  and  Shake- 
speare   could    produce  —  the    quintessence 
of  pointed  common  sense:   many   of  them 
have    passed    into   the    language,    and    art- 
put  down,  by  three  out  of  five  who  quote 
them,  to  Shakespeare.      But,  as  a  piece  of 
reasoning  in  verse,  the  "  Essay  on  Man'' 
is  utterly  inferior  to  Dryden's  "  Hind  and 
Panther."     Even    that    brilliant    achieve- 

193 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

ment  could  not  escape  the  doom  which 
hangs  over  the  didactic  poem  pure  and  sim- 
ple ;  and  certain,  therefore,  was  the  fate  of 
the  "  Essay  on  Man." 

The  "  Dunciad "  De  Quincey  ranked 
even  above  ihe  "  Rape  of  the  Lock."  At 
my  peril  I  venture  to  question  a  judgment 
backed  by  all  the  ages.  The  superb  satire 
of  parts  of  the  poem  I  admit ;  I  admit  the 
exceedingly  fine  close,  in  which  Pope 
touched  a  height  he  never  touched  before 
or  after;  I  admit  the  completeness  of  the 
scheme.  But  from  that  completeness 
comes  the  essential  defect  of  the  poem. 
He  adapted  the  scheme  from  Dryden's 
"  MacFlecknoe."  But  Dryden's  satire 
is  at  once  complete  and  succinct :  Pope  has 
built  upon  the  scheme  an  edifice  greater 
than  it  will  bear ;  has  extended  a  witty 
and  ingenious  idea  to  a  portentous  extent 
at  which  it  ceases  to  be  amusing.  The 
mock  solemnity  of  Dryden's  idea  becomes 
a  very  real  and  dull  solemnity  when  it  is 
extended    to    literal    epic    proportions.      A 

194 


POPE 

serious  epic  is  ap1  bo  nod,  with  the  force 
of  a  Milton  behind  it  ;  an  epic  satire  fairly 
goes  to  sleep.  A  pleasantry  in  several 
books  is  past  a  pleasantry.  And  it  is 
bolstered  out  with  a  great  deal  which  is 
sheer  greasy  scurrility.  The  mock-heroic 
games  of  the  poets  are  in  large  part  as 
chilly  dirty  as  the  waters  into  which  Pope 
makes  them  plunge.  If  the  poem  had  been 
half  as  long,  it  mighl  have  been  a  master- 
piece. As  it  is,  unless  we  are  to  reckon 
masterpieces  by  avoirdupois  weight,  or  to 
assign  undue  value  to  mere  symmetry  of 
scheme,  I  think  we  must  look  for  Pope's 
satirical  masterpiece  elsewhere.  Not  in  the 
satire  upon  women,  where  Pope  seems 
hardly  to  have  his  heart  in  his  work;  but 
in  the  Imitations  from  Horace,  those  gen- 
erally known  as  Pope's  "Satires."  Here 
he  is  at  his  very  best  and  tersest.  They 
are  as  brilliant  as  anything  in  the  "  Dun- 
ciad,"  and  they  are  brilliant  right  through; 
the  mordant  pen  never  flags.  It  matters 
not  that   they   are   imitated    from    Horace. 

195 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

They  gain  by  it :  their  limits  are  circum- 
scribed, their  lines  laid  down,  and  Pope 
writes  the  better  for  having  these  limits 
set  him,  this  tissue  on  which  to  work.  Not 
a  whit  does  he  lose  in  essential  originality ; 
nowhere  is  he  so  much  himself.  It  is  very 
different  from  Horace,  say  the  critics. 
Surely  that  is  exactly  the  thing  for  which 
to  thank  poetry  and  praise  Pope.  It 
has  not  the  pleasant  urbane  good  humor 
of  the  Horatian  spirit.  No,  it  has  the 
spirit  of  Pope  —  and  satire  is  the  gainer. 
Horace  is  the  more  charming  companion  ; 
Pope  is  the  greater  satirist.  In  place  of 
an  echo  of  Horace  (and  no  verse  transla- 
tion was  ever  anything  but  feeble  which 
attempted  merely  to  echo  the  original), 
we  have  a  new  spirit  in  satire ;  a  fine  series 
of  English  satirical  poems,  which  in  their 
kind  are  unapproached  by  the  Roman,  and 
in  his  kind  wisely  avoid  the  attempt  to  ap- 
proach him.  "  Satires  after  Horace " 
would  have  been  a  better  title  than  "  Imi- 
tations " ;   for  less   imitative   poems  in  es- 

196 


POPE 

sence  were  never  written.  These  and  the 
"  Rape  of  the  Lock  "  are  Pope's  finesl 
title  to  fame.  The  "  Elegy  on  an  Unfor- 
tunate Lady,"  has  at  leasl  one  pari  which 
shows  a  pathos,  little  to  have  hern  sur- 
mised from  his  later  work;  and  so,  perhaps 
(in  a  much  less  degree,  I  think),  have 
fragments  of  the  once  famous  "  Eloisa  to 
Abelard."  But  the  -Pastorals,"  and  the 
"  Windsor  Forest,"  and  the  "  Ode  on  St. 
Cecilia's  Day,"  and  other  things  in  which 
Pope  tried  the  serious  or  natural  vein,  are 
only  fit  to  be  remembered  with  Macpher- 
son's  Ossian  and  the  classical  enormities 
of  the  French  painter  David. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  as  a  satirist  we  must 
think  of  him,  and  the  second  greatest  in 
the  language.  The  o-ods  are  in  pairs, 
male  and  female;  and  if  Dryden  was  the 
Mars  of  English  satire,  Pope  was  the 
Venus  —  a  very  eighteenth  century  Venus, 
quite  as  conspicuous  for  malice  as  for  ele- 
gance. If  a  woman's  satire  were  Informed 
with  genius,  and  cultivated  to  the  utmost 

197 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

perfection    of   form   by   lifelong   and   ex- 
clusive  literary   practice,   one  imagines   it 
would   be    much    like    Pope's.     His    style 
seems  to  me  feminine  in  what  it  lacks ;  the 
absence   of   any   geniality,   any   softening 
humor  to   abate  its   mortal  thrust.     It   is 
feminine   in   what   it  has,  the  malice,  the 
cruel   dexterity,  the   delicate   needle  point 
which  hardly  betrays   its  light  and  swift 
entry,  yet  stings  like  a  bee.     Even  in  his 
coarseness  —  as      in     the     "  Dunciad  " — 
Pope    appears    to    me    female.     It    is    the 
coarseness   of  the  fine  ladies  of  that  ma- 
terial time,  the  Lady  Maries  and  the  rest 
of  them.     Dryden  is  a  rough  and  thick- 
natured    man,    cudgelling    his    adversaries 
with   coarse   speech   in  the  heat   of  brawl 
and   the    bluntness    of   his    sensibilities ;    a 
country  squire,  who  is  apt  at  times  to  use 
the   heavy   end   of  his   cutting  whip;   but 
when  Pope  is  coarse  he  is  coarse  with  ef- 
fort, he  goes  out  of  his  way  to  be  nasty, 
in  the  evident  endeavor  to  imitate  a  man. 

198 


I'OI'l. 

It  [s  a  girl  airing  the  slang  of  her  school- 
boy brother.  The  one  thing,  perhaps, 
which  differentiates  him  from  a  woman, 
and  makes  it  possible  to  read  his  verse  with 
a  certain  pleasure,  without  that  sense  of 
unrelieved  cruelty  which  repels  one  in  much 
female  satire,  is  his  artist's  delight  in  the 
exercise  of  his  power.  You  feel  that,  if 
there  be  malice,  intent  to  wound,  even  spite, 
yet  none  of  these  count  for  so  much  with 
him  as  the  exercise  of  his  superb  dexterity 
in  fence.  He  is  like  Ortheris  fondly  pat- 
ting his  rifle  after  that  long  shot  which 
knocked  over  the  deserter,  in  Mr.  Kipling's 
story.  After  all,  you  reflect,  it  is  fail- 
fight;  if  his  hand  was  against  many  men, 
many  men's  hands  were  against  him.  So 
you  give  yourself  up  to  admire  the  ^hell- 
like  epigram,  the  rocketing  and  dazzling 
antithesis,  the  exquisitely  deft  play  of 
point,  by  which  the  little  invalid  kept  in 
terror  his  encompassing  cloud  of  enemies 
—  many    of   them    adroit    and    formidable 

199 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

wits  themselves.  And  you  think,  also, 
that  the  man  who  was  loved  by  Swift,  the 
professional  hater,  was  not  a  man  without 
a  heart;  though  he  wrote  the  most  finished 
and  brilliant  satire  in  the  language. 


200 


THE  ERROR  OF  THE   EXTREME 
REALISTS 

WHETHER    or    not    for    ultimate 
good,    certainly    for    much    imme- 
diate evil,  the  gospel  preached  by  M.  Zola 
has  become  an  influence  among  many  novel 
ists.     As  we  understand  his  gospel  in  its 
relation    to    morals,    it    is    this  —  that   the 
novelistic  art,  in  order  to  be  a  complete  art, 
must   pitilessly   delineate   the  evil,   no   less 
than  the  good,  in  man's  nature;  that  the 
Pompeii  of  human  life,  moulded  under  the 
scoriae   conventions    accumulating    from    a 
traditional  and  consentaneous  suppression 
of  facts,  must  be  (in  Thackeray's  words) 
"  laid  bare  from  the  forum  to  the  lupanar." 
From  the  temple  downward,  all  the  edifices 
in  this  mighty   ruin   of  humanity   must    be 
described  with  impartial  minuteness.      Now 

201 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

if  we  admitted  the  truth  of  this  evangel 
(which  we  do  not ),  it  would  still  not  justify 
Zola's  own  practice.  For  the  charge 
against  him  is  not  that  he  describes  the 
lupanar  with  the  same  precision  as  the 
temple,  but  that  he  gives  us  exceedingly 
little  of  the  temple  and  far  too  much  of 
the  lupanar.  We  may  therefore  make  M. 
Zola  the  Jonah  of  his  own  vessel,  and  see 
if  it  will  float  the  better  for  the  lightening. 
The  attention  which  it  would  be  waste 
of  time  to  bestow  on  Zola  himself,  it  may 
not  be  so  unprofitable  to  bestow  on  his 
theory.  For,  it  would  seem  that  there  are 
a  certain  number  of,  writers,  both  here  and 
in  America,  who  are  strongly  attracted  by 
his  theory,  yet  —  according  to  their  lights 
—  are  earnest  enough  in  disclaiming  any 
wish  to  outrage  delicacy.  They  are,  as 
we  think,  in  genuine  trouble  about  their 
artistic  souls.  They  are  filled  with  indig- 
nant scorn  for  the  ordinary  English  novel 
of  the  present  day,  for  what  they  con- 
sider  its    complacently    dishonest   blinking 

202 


ERROR  OF  EXTREME  REALISTS 

of  facts,  and  turn  to  the  Zolaistic  gospel 
as  a  relief.  Nor  can  anyone  who  is  really 
acquainted  with  bhe  average  conditions  of 
modern  English  life  fail  to  see  that  these 
men  arc  not  destitute  of  a  certain  reason. 
It  is  impossible  to  read  many  of  the  rose 
colored  productions  which  pass  as  por- 
traiture of  existence,  and  then  lift  one's 
eyes  to  the  grim  reality  which  welters  all 
round  us,  without  feeling  that  the  novels 
in  question  are  about  as  much  like  the  ex- 
istence which  they  profess  to  portray  as 
wax  is  like  flesh.  It  is  therefore  very 
much  in  accordance  with  human  nature  if 
the  writers  to  whom  we  have  referred  11  v 
from  a  convention  which,  they  feel,  is 
both  insincere  and  unduly  restrictive  of 
the  novelist's  art,  to  a  theory  which  pre- 
sents the  opposite  extreme  of  no  limit  at 
all.  In  their  error  they  are  greatly  as- 
sisted by  tlu-  blurred  outlines  of  Protestant 
ethics  —  outlines  so  blurred  that  if  is  nec- 
essary to  judge  a  Protestant  writer's  in- 
tentions by  an  altogether  different  stand- 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

ard  from  that  applicable  to  a  Catholic. 
We  remember  the  publication,  a  few  years 
ago,  of  an  English  novel  which  wTas 
strongly  and  deservedly  censured  by  the 
Catholic  (and  largely  also  by  the  Protes- 
tant) press;  but  with  perhaps  more  ques- 
tionable justice  the  censure  was  unsparingly 
extended  to  the  writer.  He  had  certainly 
gone  as  near  the  method  of  some  French 
novelists  as  an  English  publisher  would  be 
likely  to  tolerate.  Yet  it  appeared  to  us 
not  impossible  that  he  had,  as  he  claimed, 
been  actuated  by  a  good  intention ;  that  he 
had  started  with  a  genuine  ethical  purpose, 
but  had  foundered  in  the  execution  between 
the  Scylla  of  a  moral  code  lacking  defini- 
tion and  the  Charybdis  of  "  artistic  com- 
pleteness." We  mention  this  as  an 
example  of  the  difficulty  which  Protestant 
writers  often  appear  to  find.  The  limits  of 
the  novelist  in  this  matter  are  nevertheless 
clear  enough,  with  the  aid  of  a  little  con- 
science on  the  part  of  the  author  and  a 
little    charity    on    the    part    of   the   critic. 

204 


ERROR  OF    EXTREME   REALISTS 

There  is  qo  reason  whatsoever  why  the 
novelist  should  blink  the  existence  <>f  wide- 
spread evil.      He  may  portray  it,  provided 

he  portray  it  as  evil,  up  to  a  certain  bound. 
Of  course  a  writer  who  does  this  cannot 
write  virgimbus  puerisque.  Hut  we  think 
that  a  novelist  has  a  perfect  right  to  elect 
such  a  course;  nor  is  he  responsible  if, 
through  the  laxity  of  guardians  or  the 
unscrupulousness  of  the  young  themselves, 
his  book  fall  into  hands  for  which  it 
was  never  intended.  Of  course,  also,  the 
rule  (as  we  have  virtually  admitted)  is  not 
absolutely  precise.  We  are  not  all  alike 
in  temperament;  and  what  is  innocent  to 
the  majority  may  hi'  offensive  to  the  indi- 
vidual conscience.  With  this  the  novelist 
has  nothing  to  do.  His  practical  duty  is 
to  pen  nothing  which  if  it  came  to  him 
from  another  would  arouse  his  own  pas 
sinus.  The  individual  who  may  neverthe- 
less find  the  hook  a  stumbling-block  has  a 
ready  remedy.  He  can  lay  it  down.  Hut 
the  author   must   be   conscientious    in    this 

■jo;. 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

self- judgment,  and  lean  rather,  if  need  be, 
to  restriction  than  laxity.  Given  con- 
science and  a  pure  mind,  however,  the  ap- 
plication of  the  rule  should  be  a  clear 
enough  matter  to  any  writer ;  and  within 
its  limit  he  has  a  field  wide  enough  for 
every  requirement  of  true  art.  In  this 
connexion,  the  case  of  the  critic  asks  con- 
sideration. How  is  he  to  know  whether, 
firstly,  the  effect  of  a  book  on  his  mind 
correctly  represents  its  effect  on  the  minds 
of  most  readers ;  or  whether,  secondly,  its 
effect  on  the  minds  of  most  readers  cor- 
rectly represents  its  effect  on  the  mind  of 
the  author?  The  answer  is  that,  in  a  lim- 
ited number  of  nevertheless  quite  possible 
cases,  he  cannot  certainly  know  either  one 
or  the  other.  He  must,  like  the  author, 
act  conscientiously  on  his  own  impressions. 
If  he  entertain  any  doubt  as  to  the  repre- 
sentative nature  of  those  impressions,  he 
may  content  himself  with  a  warning  that 
the  book  is  not  for  all  readers ;  and  if, 
though  he  condemns  the  book,  he  hesitate 

206 


ERROR  OF   EXTREME   REALISTS 
to  condemn  its  writer,  [el  him,  where  malice 

is  not  clear,  incline'  to  the  side  of  charity. 
If,  finally,  lie  honestly  pronounce  an  un- 
deserved censure,  little  harm  will  he  dune. 
The  genera]  sense  of  criticism  will  rectify 
his  individual  injustice.  We  say  "  will," 
who  ought  rather  to  have  said  "would"'; 
"would,"  were  such  charitable  rectitude 
general  among  critics.  Unfortunately,  in 
respect  of  these  matters  no  less  than  in  re- 
spect of  literary  merit,  wanton  judgments 
are  frequent,  to  the  deepening  of  the  prev- 
alent ethical  confusion.  It  may  be  urged 
that  a  genuinely  evil  writer  can  shelter 
himself  behind  the  pretence  that  his  work 
was  void  of  offence  to  his  own  conscience. 
Indubitably  :  he  always  can  and  he  always 
has  done.  Formerly  the  subterfuge  was 
seen  and  scorned  of  all  men.  Now,  how- 
ever, thi'  narrow-minded  recklessness  of 
censure  to  which  we  have  referred  enables 
such  men's  plea  to  secure  credence  and  sym- 
pathy in  dangerous  measure,  through  the 
identification   of  their   cause   with   that   of 

207 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

true  sufferers  from  unmerited  obloquy.  It 
has  become  miserably  possible  for  them  to 
say,  "  The  critics  who  condemn  me  are  the 
same  critics  who  condemned  X.  and  Y. ; 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  suffer  in  their  com- 
pany :  "  X.  and  Y.  being  well  known  of 
many  as  honorable  and  earnest  writers'  sac- 
rificed to  that  wretched  counterfeit  of 
morality,  that  bastard  of  British  Virtue, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  Propriety. 
We  have  no  reason,  however,  to  recede 
from  our  position  because,  e.  g.,  Mr.  Swin- 
burne in  earlier  days  profited  by  the  at- 
tack which  confounded,  in  one  indiscrim- 
inate onslaught,  his  own  worst  work  with 
the  work  —  so  diametrically  opposite  in 
teaching  and  tendency  —  of  Rossetti. 
Scripture  is  none  the  less  true  because  the 
devil  can  quote  it  for  his  purpose. 

But  there  may  be,  nay  are,  writers  who 
—  without  wishing  to  contravene  delicacy 
for  the  sake  of  contravention  —  neverthe- 
less, considering  themselves,  in  their  own 
phrase,  "  artists  before  everything,"  hold 

208 


ERROR  OF  EXTREME  REALISTS 

that  when  morality  antagonises  art  moral- 
ity must  stand  aside.  Even  to  them  we 
will  leave  do  excuse.  In  guiding  them- 
selves rigidly  by  morality  they  will  best 
advance  the  ends  of  art.  It'  there  be  any 
apparent  conflict  between  the  two,  let  such 
writers  rest  assured  thai  the  fault  lies,  not 
in  morality,  but  in  their  own  mistaken 
views  of  art.  Morality  never  did  nor  can 
conflict  with  art.  Take  an  analogy  which 
may  render  the  matter  clearer.  If  a  nov- 
elist conduct  his  hero  on  a  first  sea-voyage, 
it  is  according  to  nature  that  all  but  very 
heroic  heroes  indeed  should  be  sea-sick ; 
and  the  novelist  may  therefore,  if  he 
choose,  comply  with  nature.  But  will  he, 
for  one  moment,  dream  of  describing  in 
its  unsavory  detail  the  progress  of  the  mal 
de  mer?  And  why  not?  Because  it  would 
be  disgusting;  and  his  artistic  sense  warns 
him  to  avoid  what  is  disgusting.  For  pre- 
cisely parallel  reasons  must  he  avoid  de- 
scription calculated  to  inflame  the  passions. 
It  is  necessary  for  art  to  eschew  the  sen- 

209 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

sual  no  less  than  the  disgusting.  This 
constitutes  no  incompleteness  in  art,  but 
on  the  contrary  a  most  artistic  incomplete- 
ness. For  art  resides,  not  in  undiscerning 
comprehensiveness,  but  in  discerning  selec- 
tion. Hence,  in  order  to  condemn  the 
methods  of  the  ultra-realists  there  is  no 
need  to  invoke  morality.  They  stand 
doubly  condemned,  condemned  by  moral- 
ity and  condemned  by  art.  Zolaism  is  not 
artistic  completeness :  it  is  artistic  excess. 
"  Nature,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  in  a 
memorable  passage,  "  is  not  at  variance 
with  art,  nor  art  with  nature; 
for  nature  is  the  art  of  God."  Substitute 
for  "  nature  "  "  morality,"  and  the  saying 
still  holds  true.  For  morality  is  God's 
spiritual,  as  nature  is  His  visual  art;  and 
it  is  necessary  to  consult  morality  in  de- 
lineating the  intellectual  no  less  than  na- 
ture in  delineating  the  external  aspects  of 
being,  the  one  in  the  portrayal  of  human 
conduct,  as  the  other  in  the  portrayal  of 
physical  beauty. 

210 


BUNYAN  IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  MOD- 
ERN CRITICISM 

THESE  are  the  days  of  the  Higher 
Criticism ;  when  criticism,  as  the 
author  of  a  book  before  us, —  "  Ignorant 
Essays  " —  remarks,  lias  been  reduced  to 
an  exact  science  —  or  thinks  it  has,  which 
is  not  perhaps  the  same  thing.  It  is  Mr. 
Dowling's  remark,  not.  ours ;  for  we  have 
our  doubts  as  to  the  scientific  exactness  of 
the  Higher  Criticism,  or  indeed  as  to  the 
possibility  of  reducing  literary  criticism, 
and  above  all,  poetical  criticism,  to  an  exact 
science.  Much,  no  doubt,  may  be  and  has 
been  done  in  the  direction  of  codifying  it, 
and  introducing  guards  against  the  worst' 
excesses  of  dull  caprice:  but  when  all  has 
been  said  and  done,  the  last  word  in  the 
fast  resort  must  always  remain  to  be  ut- 

211 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

tered  by  that  indescribable,  intuitive  fac- 
ulty which  we  label  rather  than  describe 
as  Taste ;  a  faculty  which,  though  it  may 
be  educed,  cultivated,  and  corrected,  can 
no  more  be  taught  than  poetry  itself ;  but, 
like  poetry,  is  born  with  its  possessor. 
There  are  subtle  currents  of  perception 
which  the  most  delicate  galvanometer  of 
expression  refuses  to  indicate.  You  can- 
not always  formulate  feeling.  There  are 
cases  in  which,  if  the  critic  attempt  to 
fortify  his  inborn  instinct  for  poetic  ex- 
cellence by  reasoned  demonstration,  he  de- 
ludes his  readers,  and  most  of  all  himself ; 
in  which  the  only  honest  method  is  vir- 
tually, if  not  explicitly,  to  declare,  "  This 
is  poetry  —  I  feel  it  to  be  poetry."  Un- 
til quite  recently,  however,  the  scientific 
prestige  of  the  Higher  Criticism  was  a 
thing  so  overwhelming  that  the  few  cavil- 
lers who  were  sensible  of  these  things  dared 
not  lift  their  voices.  But  since  the  very 
prophet  of  the  new  method,  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold,  showed  by  his  onslaught  on  Shel- 

212 


BUN VAN 

lev  thai  all  the  forces  of  the  Higher  Crit- 
icism were  unavailing  to  protect  a  critic 
from  aberrations  of  judgment  grievous  as 
any  recorded  of  poor,  despised  Jeffrey, 
nay  even  (except  for  Clifford's  vulgarity)  of 
Gilford  himself,  it  has  become  possible  for 
a  writer,  while  acknowledging  the  genuine 
good  work  done  by  the  innovation,  to  ques- 
tion its  claims  to  the  rank  of  a  science. 
Nay,  we  ask  pardon  for  using  such  lan- 
guage: to  our  thinking,  criticism,  in  es- 
sence  if  not  in  detail,  is  a  higher  and  more 
delicate  thing  than  any  science. 

Accordingly,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  encoun- 
ter  a  writer  who  approaches  the  great 
poets  (throwing  aside  pretensions  to  "ac- 
curate criticism  ")  in  the  attitude  of  rev- 
erenl  delighted  admiration,  and  warm, 
sympathetic  intuition.  In  their  case,  at 
Least,  Mich  an  attitude  is  surely  admissible 
and  appropriate.  Their  place  in  litera- 
ture is  long  since  decided,  so  far  as  con 
cerns  the  present  generation;  their  faults, 
Mich  as  they  are,  have  been  detected   and 

213 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

catalogued:  it  becomes  possible  in  their 
regard  to  have  a  surfeit  of  balanced  crit- 
ical appraisal.  The  one  thing  we  cannot 
have  too  much  of  is  discriminating  praise, 
rooted  (as  with  the  author  under  notice) 
in  direct  poetical  insight.  And  the 
writer's  praise  is  infectious  in  its  gener- 
osity and  truth.  We  all,  or  let  us  hope, 
most  of  us,  know  how  delightful  is  the 
conversation  of  a  friend  who  reverberates 
in  lustier,  more  vigorous  phrases,  our  own 
love  for  the  heirs  of  immortality,  who 
voices,  as  it  were,  the  inarticulate  throb- 
bings  of  our  hearts.  Such  a  friend  is  the 
book  before  us.  The  author  speaks  of  the 
great  poets,  of  Keats,  or  Spenser,  or  De 
Quincey,1  as  we  are  told  that  Keats  him- 
self spoke,  and  as  we  know  that  Keats 
wrote  of  them  —  with  eyes  kindling,  and 

i  We  make  no  apology  for  placing  De  Quincey 
among  the  poets.  If  ever  poetry  quitted  for  a 
space  her  mighty  orchestra  of  metre  to  draw  hardly 
less  mighty  harmonies  from  the  majestic  organ  of 
prose,  it  was  when  she  dominated  the  great  soul  in 
the  frail  body  of  Thomas  de  Quincey, 

214 


Bl'XYAN 

quickened  pulse,  so  thai  the  cold  printed 
lines  seem  to  rise  and  ring  like  a  human 
voice.  If,  when  he  has  finished  some  of 
these  "  Essays,"  the  reader  docs  not  feel 
an  irrepressible  desire  to  shake  the  au- 
thor by  the  hand,  and  thank  him  for  his 
stimulating  converse  —  then  the  reader's 
feelings  arc  not  as  ours,  and  this  book  is 
not  for  him.  He  had  better  seek  some 
critic  who  will  lay  his  subject  on  the 
table,  nick  out  every  nerve  of  thought, 
every  vessel  of  emotion,  every  muscle  of 
expression  with  light,  cool,  fastidious  scal- 
pel, and  then  call  on  him  to  admire  the 
"•  neat   dissect  ion." 

With  that  quick,  direct  insight,  which 
distinguishes  him,  the  author  of  "  [gnoranl 
Ivssays "'  has  detected  a  literary  fallacy 
which  has  long  flourished  in  unchecked 
rankness.  For  nearly  two  centuries  Bunyan 
and  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  have  re- 
mained  unassailed  by  the  literary  icon- 
oclasts, who  have  left  little  unassailed  that 
\\;is    capable    of    assault;    until    Macaulav. 

•J  l  5 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

by  his  celebrated  essay,  set  the  seal  on  the 
literary  reputation  of  the  converted  tin- 
ker. It  is  strange  (but  thanks  are  none 
the  less  surely  due  to  him)  that  it  should 
have  been  left  for  the  writer  of  these  "  Es- 
says "  to  utter  the  first  word  of  cavil.  He 
has  accepted  the  responsibility  manfully  ; 
and  at  an. appropriate  moment,  when  the 
centenary  of  Bunyan  is  being  celebrated 
by  his  admirers,  and  when,  moreover,  the 
mediaeval  book  from  which  Bunyan  bor- 
rowed is  about  to  reappear  in  English 
dress.  The  following  passage  occurs  in 
what  is  the  most  important,  as  it  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting,  of  Mr.  Dowling's 
"  Essays  "— "  Lies  of  Fable  and  Alle- 
gory " :  — 

"How  any  man  with  imagination  can 
bear  the  book  I  do  not  know.  Bunyan  had 
inexhaustible  invention,  but  no  imagina- 
tion. He  saw  a  reason  for  things,  but 
not  the  things  themselves.  No  creation  of 
the  imagination  can  lack  consequence  or 
verisimilitude.     On  almost  every  page  of 

216 


BUNYAN 

the  'Progress'  there  is  violation  of  se- 
quence,  outrage  against  verisimilitude. 
Christian  has  a  great  burden  on  bis  back 

and  is  in  rags.  Hc  cannot  remove  the 
burden.  (Why?)  He  is  put  to  bed 
(with  the  burden  on  his  back),  then  he 
is  troubled  in  bis  mind  (the  burden  is  for- 
gotten, and  the  vision  altered  completely 
and  fatally);  again  we  are  reminded  that 
he  has  the  burden  on  his  back  when  he 
tells  Evangelist  of  it.  Why  can  he  not 
loose  the  burden  on  his  back?  How  is  it 
secured  so  that  he  cannot  remove  it?  He 
cannot  see  a  wicket-gate  across  a  very 
wide  field,  but  lie  sees  a  shining  lighl 
(where?),  and  then  he  begins  to  run  (bur- 
den and  all)  away  from  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren (which  is  immoral  and  abhorrent  to 
the  laws  of  God  and  Man).  For  the  mere 
selfish  ease  of  his  body  he  deserts  his  wife 
and  children,  who  must  be  left  miserably 
poor,  for  is  he  not  in  rags?  The  neigh- 
bors  com,,  out  and  mock  at  him  for  run- 
ning across  a  field.      Why?     How  do  they 

217 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

know  why  he  runs,  and  what  neighbors  are 
there  to  come  out  and  mock  at  one  when 
one  is  running  across  a  large  field?  The 
Slough  of  Despond  is  in  this  field  (for  he 
has  not  passed  through  the  wicket-gate), 
and  he  does  not  seem  to  know  of  the 
Slough,  or  think  of  avoiding  it.  Fancy 
any  man  not  knowing  of  such  a  filthy 
hole  within  a  field  of  his  home !  How  is 
it  that  Pliable  and  Obstinate  have  no  bur- 
dens on  their  backs?  It  is  not  the  will  of 
the  King  that  this  Slough  should  be  dan- 
gerous to  wayfarers :  this  surely  is  blas- 
phemy. The  whole  thing  is  grotesquely 
absurd,  and  impossible  to  imagine.  There 
is  no  sobriety  in  it,  no  sobriety  of  keeping 
in  it ;  and  no  matter  how  wild  the  effort 
or  vision  of  imagination  may  be  there  must 
always  be  sobriety  of  keeping  in  it,  or  it  is 
delirium  not  imagination,  disease  not  in- 
spiration. As  far  as  I  can  see,  there  is 
no  trace  of  imagination,  or  even  fancy,  in 
the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress.'     The  story  never 

218 


HI  WW 

happened  at  all.     It   is  a  horrible  attempt 
to  t  inkerise  the  Bible." 

Surely,  this  is  true;  and  il  i>  a  blot  on 
English  criticism  that  we  should  have  had 
to  wait  so  long  for  a  strong,  honest  voice 
to  utter  it.  Macaulay  praises  the  vivid 
impression  produced  by  the  scenes.  Ma- 
caulay was  brought  up  in  evangelical  cir- 
cles, and  we  suspect  that  early  familiarity 
had  much  to  do  with  the  effed  produced 
by  these  scenes  on  his  imagination.  Vivid 
they  are  not.  Indeed,  Bunyan  hardly 
ever  even  attempts  description;  the  meresl 
guide-book  mention  suffices  him.  Now  in 
the  hands  of  a  master  of  language,  such 
slight  mention  may,  by  skilful  select  ion  of 
salient  detail,  become  pictorial:  some  of 
Dante's  scenes,  for  example,  are  of  this 
order,  yet  who  desires  one  syllable  further 
in  Dante's  slightest  sketch?  Hut  Bun- 
yan's  jejune  mention  has  no  such  redeem- 
ing magic;  it  is  a  mere  evasion  of  diffi- 
culties    beyond     his      grasp.      Take     the 

219 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Slough  of  Despond.  What  is  there  to  ac- 
count for  its  celebrity?  He  mentions  that 
there  was  a  slough  in  the  field,  and  that  it 
was  miry  —  no  more ;  we  learn  that  Chris- 
tian was  grievously  bemuddied,  and  we 
are  sorry  that  there  was  no  one  on  the 
other  side  to  brush  the  poor  man's  clothes. 
But  he  was  never,  it  would  appear,  in  the 
least  danger;  the  thing  is  not  exciting,  nor 
interesting,  nor  graphic,  nor  anything  but 
dull.  For  all  that  distinguishes  this  slough 
from  any  other  slough,  it  might  be  the 
quagmire  on  the  common  into  which 
Farmer  Giles's  cow  strayed  the  other  day. 
We  have  searched  the  book  in  vain  for  a 
single  scene  with  a  single  master-touch  of 
delineation  ;  and  the  result  has  been  thor- 
oughly to  convince  us  that  the  man  was 
incapable  of  such  a  thing,  he  knew  himself 
incapable,  and  therefore  instinctively 
shirked  description. 

Take  again  one  of  the  passages  spe- 
cially alluded  to  by  Macaulay  —  a  passage 
with    great    possibilities    for    a    powerful 

220 


BUNYAN 

writer  —  that  describing  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow.  For  once  Bunyan  does  flicker 
into  a  meagre  glimmer  of  description;  hut 

its   only   effect    is   to    leave   the   darkness   of 

his    fancy    visible,    and    he   flickers    feebly   • 

out  again.  The  mouth  of  Hell  is  by  the 
way;  and  after  his  usual  commonplace 
manner  of  vision,  he  introduces  this  tre- 
mendous idea  with  a  dense  flippancy  such 
as  never  surely  was  accorded  to  it  before: 
so  introduced,  the  mouth  of  Hell  affects 
the  imagination  no  more  than  if  it  had 
been  the  mouth  of  a  blast-furnace.  We 
beg  pardon  of  the  blast-furnace.  Seen  by 
night,  shooting  up  its  red  and  lonely  fins 
amidst  a  bleak  waste  of  country  desolately 
drear  as  the  heath  of  Forres,  a  blast-fur- 
nace is  an  eerie,  uncomfortable  spectacle, 
making  you  draw  hack  into  your  carriage 
(if  you  are  on  the  i  iilw.t\  )  with  a  little 
shiver,  and  a  sensation  as  if  darkness  had 
grown  suddenly  several  degrees  more 
gloomy.  Hut  there  is  no  shiver  in  Bun- 
yan's    Hell.     And   he    is   as   Incapable   of 

22  l 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

beauty  as  of  terror.  The  Delectable 
Mountains  have  nothing  delectable  but 
their  name.  He  speaks  of  an  Enchanted 
Arbor;  and  for  a  moment  lovely  possibili- 
ties of  poetry  make  shifting  gleams  before 
the  beguiled  expectation.  Alas !  the  En- 
chanted Arbor  has  a  green  roof,  but  there 
its  poetry  begins  and  ends.  It  is  nothing 
but  a  rustic  alehouse  bench,  upholstered 
with  cushions  by  a  daring  flight  of  Bun- 
yanesque  fancy:  very  comfortable  to  sleep 
on,  as  the  allegorist  assures  us.  Why, 
yes ;  and  it  is  an  enchanted  arbor  such  as 
might  have  dawned  in  some  seraphic 
dream  upon  the  great  mind  of  Christopher 
Sly. 

Finally,  and  because  here  it  becomes 
possible  to  compare  Bunyan  with  a  gen- 
uine master  of  personification,  consider  the 
castle  of  Giant  Despair.  Despair  himself 
is  a  gross,  dull,  blundering  creation,  very 
much  like  a  ruffianly  inn-keeper  with  ir- 
responsible powers ;  and  so  irreclaimably 
stupid,  so  destitute  of  all  awful  qualities, 

222 


BUNYAN 

that  lie  must  needs  go  to  bed  and  consult 
his  wife  before  he  can  devise  torments 
for  his  helpless  victims.  Why  Despair 
should  have  a  wife,  and  who  or  what  De- 
spair's wife  may  be,  though  questions  diflB 
cult  of  solution  as  "  what  song  the  sirens 
sang,  or  what  name  Achilles  took  when  he 
hid  himself  among  women,"-  are  insig 
nificant  absurdities  beside  the  poverty  of  the 
whole  conception.  The  dungeon  is  as  com- 
monplace as  the  Giant;  the  tortures- 
cudgelling  and  hunger  —  are  commonplace 
tortures;  and  then  Despair  comes  down 
and  counsels  his  prisoners  to  make  away 
with  themselves.  Here  was  an  oppor- 
tunity, had  Bunyan  possessed  one  tithe  of 
the  faculty  required  to  avail  himself  of  the 
opportunity!  But  he  shirks  it,  as  usual, 
and  after  barely  mentioning  the  fact, 
sends  his  personification  of  the  most  aw- 
ful passion  in  the  stormy  gamut  of  human 
passions    upstairs    again         to    his    wife,    we 

z Sir  Thomas  Browne's  types  of  knotty  difficulty, 

instanced  by  Mm  in  the  "  Urn-Burial." 

223 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

presume,  and  bed,  as  if  Despair  could 
sleep !  Not  a  syllable  of  the  arguments 
by  which  he  lured  his  caged  wretches  to 
self-destruction,  though  at  other  times  he 
is  full  of  prosy  discussion !  Consequently 
the  reader  is  surprised  to  find  Christian 
subsequently  dallying  with  thoughts  of 
suicide.  We  seem  to  hear  and  see  quite 
another  Despair,  whose  dwelling  was  a 
mere  barren  cave,  not  a  castle ;  but  who 
needed  no  hunger,  stripes,  nor  torments, 
nothing  but  the  gloomy  necromancy  of 
his  own  baleful  eloquence  to  fascinate  his 
over-daring  visitants  with  a  fascination 
which  extends  to  the  reader.  Compare  the 
two,  and  you  have  at  once  the  measure  of 
the  difference  between  John  Bunyan  and 
Edmund  Spenser. 

What  is  true  of  the  scenes  is  true  also 
of  the  characters.  Macaulay  instances 
Madam  Bubble,  "  swarthy  Madam  Bub- 
ble." Well,  Bunyan  tells  us  that  she  was 
swarthy,  and  that  she  was  comely,  and  that 
she  smiled  in  the  ending  of  her  speech.      If 

221 


BUN Y AN 

this  is  graphic,  then  Hun  van  is  graphic; 
hut  you  will  look  in  vain  for  anything 
more  or  higher.  For  all  we  can  see,  apart 
from  their  surroundings,  the  Giant  Despair 
might  have  been  the  Giant  Slaygood,  and 
Giant  Slaygood  Giant  Despair.  Nor  will 
tin'  language  make  amends  for  the  trivi- 
ality  of  conception.  It  is  Biblical  lan- 
guage reduced  to  commonplace.  Almost 
on  the  opening  page  occurs  a  phrase  (we 
forget  the  exact  words,  and  cannot  in- 
fect ourselves  with  Bunyan  in  order  to 
look  for  it)  equivalent  to  "a  phrensy 
lunacy,"  and  altogether  worthy  of  Mis- 
tress Quickly.  Bunyan  as  a  writer  may 
be  summed  up  in  the  words  which  Louis 
Blanc  unjustly  applied  to  Louis  Napoleon: 
Bete,  bete;  il  rCest  pas  perm  is  d'etre  si 
bete.  We  are  not  grateful  to  the  essayist. 
for  having  induced  us  to  renew  our  ac- 
quaintance with  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 


THE  PROSE  OF  POETS 


SIB     PHILIP    SIDNEY 

AMONG  prose-writers  a  peculiar  in- 
teresl  attaches  to  the  poets  who  have 
written  prose,  who  can  both  soar  and  walk. 
For  to  this  case  the  image  will  not  apply: 
of  the  eagle  overbalanced  in  walking  by 
the  weight  of  his  great  wings.  Nay,  far 
from  the  poets  being  astray  in  prose-writ- 
ing, it  might  plausibly  be  contended  that 
English  prose,  as  an  art,  is  but  a  secondary 
stream  of  the  Pierian  fount,  and  owes  its 
very  origin  to  the  poets.  The  firsi  writer 
one  remembers  with  whom  prose  became  an 
art  was  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  And  Sidney 
was  a  poet. 

If  Chaucer,  as  has  been  said,  is  Spring. 
it  iv  a  modern,  premature  Spring,  followed 

'J  -'  7 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

by  an  interval  of  doubtful  weather.  Sid- 
ney is  the  very  Spring  —  the  later  May. 
And  in  prose  he  is  the  authentic,  only 
Spring.  It  is  a  prose  full  of  young  joy, 
and  young  power,  and  young  inexperience, 
and  young  melancholy,  which  is  the  wilful- 
ness of  joy;  full  of  young  fertility,  wan- 
toning in  its  own  excess.  Every  nerve 
of  it  is  steeped  in  deliciousness,  which  one 
might  confuse  with  the  softness  of  a 
decadent  and  effeminate  age  like  our  own, 
so  much  do  the  extremes  of  the  literary 
cycle  meet.  But  there  is  all  the  difference 
between  the  pliancy  of  young  growth  and 
the  languor  of  decay.  This  martial  and 
fiery  progeny  of  a  martial  and  fiery  age 
is  merely  relaxing  himself  to  the  full  in  the 
interval  of  his  strenuous  life's  campaign, 
indulging  the  blissful  dreams  of  budding 
manhood  —  a  virile  Keats,  one  might  say. 
You  feel  these  martial  spirits  revelling  in 
the  whole  fibre  of  his  style.  It  is,  indeed, 
the  writing  of  a  child ;  or,  perhaps,  of  an 
exceptional  boy,  who  still  retains  the  roarn- 

228 


Till.   PROSE  or   POETS 

ing,  luxuriant  Bweetness  of  a  child's  fancy; 
who  has  broken  into  the  store-closet  of  lit— 

( t.uy  conserves,  and  cloyed  hiniM-lf  in  de- 
licious contempt  ol*  law  and  ignorance  of 
satiety,  tasting  all  capricious  dainties  as 
they  come.  The  Arcadia  runs  honey; 
with  a  leisurely  deliberation  of  relish,  epi 
cureanly  savoured  to  the  full,  all  alien  t< 
our  hurried  and  tormented  age. 

Sidney's  prose  is  treasurahle,  not  only 
for  its  absolute  merits,  but  as  the  bud  from 
which  English  prose,  that  gorgeous  and 
varied  flower,  has  unfolded.  It  is  in  every 
wav  the  reverse  of  modern  prose.  Our 
conditions  of  hurry  carry  to  excess  the 
style  con  pee,  the  abrupt  style,  resolved  into 
its  ultimate  elements  of  short  and  single 
sentences.  Sidney  revels  in  the  periodic- 
style —  long  sentence-,  holding  in  suspi  l 
sion  many  clause-,  which  are  shepherded  to 
a  full  and  sonorous  close.  But  with  him 
this  style  is  inchoate:  it  i>  not  yet  logically 
compacted,  the  clauses  do  not  follow  inev- 
itably,  are   not   gradually    evolved   and   ex- 

229 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

paneled  like  the  blossom  from  the  seed. 
The  sentences  are  loose,  often  inartificial 
and  tyro-like,  tacked  together  by  a  pro- 
fuse employment  of  relatives  and  present 
participles.  At  times  the  grammar  be- 
comes confused,  and  falls  to  pieces. 

"  Even  as  a  child  is  often  brought  to 
take  most  wholesome  things,"  etc. ;  "  which 
if  one  should  begin  to  tell  them  the  nature 
of  the  aloes  or  rhubarbum  they  should  re- 
ceive,    would " —  and     so     forth.     Either 
Sidney  should  have  written  "  children  "  in- 
stead of  "  a  child,"  or  "  if  one  should  tell 
it,"   and  so  throughout  the  remainder  of 
the  sentence.     This  is  a  mild  specimen  of 
the  reckless  grammar  into  which  he  often 
lapses.     The    piling   up    of    relatives    and 
present  participles  we  need  not  exemplify : 
it  will  be  sufficiently  seen  in  the  quotations 
we  make  to  exhibit  his  general  style.      But 
this     looseness     has     a     characteristic     ef- 
fect:   it    conduces   to   the    general   quality 
of  Sidney's  style.      Here,  truly,  the  style 
is    the    man.     The    long,    fluctuant    sen- 

230 


THE   PROSE  OF  POETS 

tences,  impetuous^  agglomerated  rather 
than  organic  growths,  have  a  copious  and 
dissolving  melody,  quite  harmonious  with 
the  subject-matter  and  the  nature  of  the 
man.  Jeremy  Taylor,  too,  mounds  his 
magnificent  sentences  rather  than  con- 
structs  them:  but  the  effect  is  different 
and  more  masculine;  Day,  thev  are  struc 
tural  compared  with  Sidney's  —  so  far 
had  prose  travelled  during  the  interim. 

The  Arcadia  is  tedious  to  us  in  its  un- 
varying chivalrous  fantasy  and  unremit- 
tent  lusciousness  long  drawn-out.  Yet  it 
lias  at  moments  a  certain  primitive  tender- 
ness, natural  and  captivating  in  no  slight 

degree.       No    modern    romaneer   could   show 

us  a  passage  like  this,  so  palpitating  In  its 
poured-out  feminine  compassion.  The 
hero  has  attempted  suicide  by  his  mis- 
I  ress's  couch : 

"  Therefore,  getting  with  speed  her 
weak,  though  well-accorded  limbs  out  of 
her  sweetened  bed,  as  when  jewels  are 
hastily   pulled  out   of  some  rich  coffer,  she 

281 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

spared  not  the  nakedness  of  her  tender 
feet,  but,  I  think,  borne  as  fast  with  desire 
as  fear  carried  Daphne,  she  came  running 
to  Pyrocles,  and  finding  his  spirits  some- 
thing troubled  with  the  fall,  she  put  by  the 
bar  that  lay  close  to  him,  and  straining 
him  in  her  well-beloved  embracements ; 
'  My  comfort,  my  joy,  my  life,'  said  she, 
'  what  haste  have  you  to  kill  your 
Philoclea  with  the  most  cruel  torment  that 
ever  lady  suffered?  '  " 

What  a  delicate  chivalry  of  heart  there  is 
in  it  all !  How  exquisitely  felt  that  phrase, 
"  her  sweetened  bed  "  !  How  charmingly 
fancied  the  image  which  follows  it ;  and 
how  beautiful  — "  she  spared  not  the  nak- 
edness of  her  tender  feet " !  How 
womanly  Philoclea's  outburst,  and  the  ten- 
der eagerness  of  the  whole  picture !  In 
other  passages  Sidney  shows  his  power 
over  that  pastoral  depiction  dear  to  the 
Elizabethans  —  artificial,  if  you  will,  re- 
fined and  courtly,  yet  simple  as  the  lisp  of 
babes. 

232 


THE   PROSE  OF   POETS 


.. 


Thyrsis  not  with  many  painted  words 
nor  falsified  promises  had  won  the  consent 
of  his  beloved  Kala,  but  with  a  true  and 
simple  making  her  know  he  loved  her,  not 
forcing  himself  beyond  his  reach  to  buy 
her  affect  ion.  hut  giving  her  such  pretty 
presents  a^  neither  could  weary  him  with 
the  giving  nor  shame  her  for  the  taking. 
Thus,  the  first  strawberries  he  could  find 
were  ever,  in  a  clean-washed  dish,  sent  to 
Kala;  the  posies  of  the  spring-flowers  were 
wrapt  up  in  a  little  green  silk,  and  dedi- 
cated to  Kala's  breasts;  thus  sometimes  his 
sweetest  cream,  sometimes  the  best  cake- 
bread  his  mother  made,  were  reserved  for 
Kala's  taste." 

Naturally,  his  youthful  efflorescence 
spreads  itself  in  description  when  the 
chance  comes  his  way:  for  the  Elizabethans 
had  not  our  monomania  for  description 
per  se: 

"There  were  hills  which  garnished  their 
proud  heights  with  trees;  humble  valleys, 
whose  bare  estate   seemed   comforted   with 

233 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers ;  meadows, 
enamelled  with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing 
flowers ;  thickets,  which,  being  lined  with 
most  pleasant  shade,  were  witnessed  so,  too, 
by  a  cheerful  disposition  of  many  well- 
tuned  birds ;  each  pasture  stored  with 
sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security;  while 
the  lambs,  with  bleating  oratory,  craved 
the  dam's  comfort.  Here  a  shepherd's  boy 
piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be 
old ;  there  a  young  shepherdess  knitting, 
and  withal  singing;  and  it  seemed  that 
her  voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work 
and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice- 
music." 

Sidney  is  not  without  that  artificial  bal- 
ance and  antithesis  which,  in  its  most  exces- 
sive form,  we  know  as  euphuism.  This, 
and  the  other  features  of  his  style,  appear 
where  we  should  least  expect  them ;  for  his 
style  has  not  the  flexibility  which  can  ad- 
just itself  to  varying  themes.  How  shall 
an  age  accustomed  to  the  direct  battle- 
music    of    Kipling    and    Stevenson    admit 

234 


THE   PROSE  OK  POETS 

such    tortuous    narratives    of    conflict    as 
this? 

"  Both  being  thus  already  allied  by 
blood,  yet  did  strive  for  a  more  strict  affin- 
ity:  wounds,  in  regard  of  their  frequency, 
being  no  more  respected  than  blows 
were  before.  Though  thev  met  in  divers 
colors,  now  both  were  clad  in  one  liv- 
ery, as  most  suitable  to  their  present  es- 
tate: being  servants  to  one  master,  and 
rivals  in  preferment.  Neither  could 
showers  of  blood  quench  the  winds  of  their 
wrath,  which  did  blow  it  forth  in  great 
abundance,  till  faintness  would  have  fain 
persuaded  both  that  they  were  mortal,  and 
though  neither  of  them  by  another,  yet 
both  overcomable  by  death.  Then  despair 
came  to  reinforce  the  fight,  joining  with 
courage,  not  as  a  companion  but  as  a  sen 
ant:  for  courage  never  grew  desperate, 
but  despair  grew  courageous;  both  being 
resolved,  if  not  conquering,  none  of  them 
should  survive  the  other's  conquest,  nor 
owe  trophy  but  to  death." 

235 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Assuredly  Sidney  might  have  learned 
much  from  the  forthright  old  Northern 
sagas,  if  he  had  known  them,  in  the  art  of 
warlike  narrative.  But  his  best  prose  is, 
after  all,  to  be  found,  not  in  the  romantic 
Arcadia,  but  in  the  Defence  of  Poesy. 
There  he  has  had  a  set  purpose  of  convic- 
tion, of  attack  and  defence  before  him, 
and  is  not  constantly  concerned  with  artis- 
tic writing.  The  result  is  more  truly  ar- 
tistic for  having  less  explicit  design  of 
art.  We  get  not  only  melodiously-woven 
sentences,  but  also  touches  of  true  fire  and 
vigor:  he  is  even  homely  on  occasion.  It 
is  from  the  Defence  of  Poesy  that  critics 
mostly  choose  their  "  Sidneian  showers  of 
sweet  discourse." 

Here  is  one  well-known  passage: 
"Now,  therein,  of  all  sciences  (I  speak 
still  of  human,  and  according  to  the  hu- 
man conceit)  is  our  poet  the  monarch. 
For  he  doth  not  only  show  the  way,  but 
giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect  unto  the  way 
as  will   entice   any    man  to   enter  into   it. 

236 


THE   PROSE  OF  POETS 

Nay,  he  doth,  as  if  your  journey  should 
lie  through  a  fair  vineyard,  at  the  very 
first  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that, 
full  of  the  taste,  you  may  long  to  pass 
further.  He  begiuueth  not  with  obscure 
definitions,  which  must  blur  the  margin 
with  interpretations  and  load  the  mind  with 
doubtfulness;  but  he  cometh  to  you  with 
words  set  in  delightful  proportion,  either 
accompanied  with,  or  prepared  for,  the 
well-enchanting  skill  of  music;  and  with 
a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you  — 
with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from 
play  and  old  men  from  the  chimney  cor- 
ner; and,  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend 
the  winning  of  the  mind  from  wickedness 
to  virtue,  even  as  a  child  is  often  brought 
to  take  most  wholesome  things  by  hiding 
them  in  such  other  as  have  a  pleasant  taste, 
which,  if  one  should  begin  to  tell  them  the 
nature  of  the  aloes  or  rhubarbum  they 
should  receive,  would  sooner  take  their 
physic  at  their  ears  than  their  mouth.  So 
is  it  in  men  —  most  of  whom  are  childish 

237 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

in  the  best  things  till  they  be  cradled  in 
their  graves.  Glad  they  will  be  to  hear 
the  tales  of  Achilles,  Hercules,  Cyrus, 
Aeneas  ;  and  hearing  them,  must  needs  hear 
the  right  description  of  wisdom,  valor,  and 
justice;  which,  if  they  had  been  barely  — 
that  is  to  say,  philosophically  —  set  out, 
they  would  swear  they  be  brought  to  school 
again." 

Very  plainly,  Sidney  was  no  believer  in 
that  modern  fanaticism  —  art  for  art's 
sake.  But  from  his  own  standpoint,  which 
is  the  eternal  standpoint,  no  finer  apology 
for  poetry  has  ever  been  penned.  The 
reader  will  note  passages  which  have  be- 
come almost  proverbial.  One  ought  to  be 
proverbial :  "  Most  of  whom  are  childish  in 
the  best  things,  till  they  be  cradled  in  their 
graves."  The  construction  has  not  the 
perfection  of  subsequent  prose  —  of  Ra- 
leigh at  his  best,  or  Browne.  The  sen- 
tences do  not  alwa}rs  stop  at  their  climax, 
but  are  weakened  by  a  tagged-on  continua- 
tion.    A  modern  writer  would  have  made  a 

238 


THE  PROSE  Ol    POETS 

period  after  "  (wickedness  to  virtue,*'  and 
greatly  strengthened  the  effect.  But,  for 
all  the  partial  inexpertness,  it  is  splendid 
writing,  with  already  the  suggestion  of 
the  arresting  phrase  and  stately  cadences 
presently  to  be  in  English  prose.  He  is 
specially  felicitous  in  those  sayings  of  di- 
rect and  homely  phrase  which  have  become 
household  words:  "A  tale  which  holdeth 
children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the 
chimney-corner,"  or  that  other  well-known 
saying  that  Chevy-Chase  moved  him  "  like 
the  sound  of  a  trumpet."  It  was  a  great 
and  original  genius,  perhaps  in  prose 
(where  he  had  no  models)  even  more  than 
in  poetry,  which  was  cut  short  on  the  field 
of  Zutphen;  even  as  the  Spanish  Garcilaso, 
also  young,  noble,  and  a  pastoral  poet, 
fell  in  the  breach  of  a  northern  town. 


239 


A  RENEGADE  POET 


II 

SHAKSPEARE 

IT  might  almost  be  erected  into  a  rule 
that  a  great  poet  is,  if  he  pleases,  also 
a  master  of  prose.  Has  any  great  poet 
essayed  prose  unsuccessfully?  Pope,  per- 
haps, in  his  letters.  But  the  reason  is 
obvious.  The  most  artificial  (in  no  bad 
sense)  of  poets,  the  sword,  the  wig,  and 
?broidered  coat,  showing  with  dexterous 
elegance  throughout  his  verse,  he  was  ill- 
advised  enough  to  make  his  bow  be- 
fore posterity  in  the  one  form  of  prose 
which  imperiously  demands  nature.  Horry 
Walpole  was  artificial,  and  Byron  was  no 
child  of  nature,  though  simplicity  com- 
pared with  Walpole.  But  the  artifice 
(after  its  differing  kind  and  proportion) 
was  in  the  marrow  of  both  men.  The  let- 
ters would  not  have  been  themselves  with- 
out  it.     Pope,    on   the    contrary,   deliber- 

240 


THE  PROSE  OF  POETS 

ately  "  wrote  up  "  and  falsified  his  letters 
to  make  them  "worthy  of  posterity" — 
which  resented  the  cheat  by  refusing  to 
look  at  them.  And  he  never  wrote,  to 
begin  with,  without  an  eye  on  the  best 
models  and  what  his  correspondents  would 
think  of  him.  In  a  more  artificial  mode 
of  prose  he  might  have  been  brilliant. 
Shelley,  too,  was  a  more  than  doubtful  suc- 
cess in  prose  —  for  a  quite  opposite  rea- 
son. Frankly  natural,  his  nature  was  at 
its  worst  in  prose.  Even  in  verse  he 
sinned  by  copiousness.  Freed  from  the 
restraining  banks  of  rhyme  and  measure, 
he  "slopped  over"  with  ultra-feminine 
fluency  of  language  and  sentiment  ;  a  fatal 
redundancy  mars  all  \u>  prose.  But  even 
Keats,  with  all  his  femininity  of  luxurious 
emotion,  "scores"  in  his  letters.  There 
are  i'vw  poets,  perhaps,  from  whom  we 
should  not  wish  to  have  prose.  Tennyson 
in  modem  times  is  the  great  example  of  a 
poet  who  never  spoke  without  his  singing- 
robes.      But  we  feel  an   instinctive  convic- 

2  I  1 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

tion    that    Tennyson's    prose    would    have 
been  worth  having;  that  it  would  have  been 
terse,    strong,    and    picturesque  —  in    an- 
other fashion   from  the   pictorial  English 
of   the    Anglo-Saxon    revivalists.      Indeed, 
there  is  manifest  reason  why  a  poet  should 
have  command  over  "  that  other  harmony 
of  prose,"  as  a  great  master  of  both  has 
called  it.     The  higher  includes  the  lower, 
the  more  the  less.     He  who  has  subdued  to 
his  hand  all  the  resources  of  language  un- 
der the   exaltedly   difficult  and  specialized 
conditions  of  metre  should  be  easy  lord  of 
them   in   the   unhindered   forms   of  prose. 
Perhaps    it   is   lack,  of  inclination    rather 
than    of   ability    which    indisposes    a   poet 
for  the  effort.     Perhaps,  also,  the  metrical 
restraints    are   to    him   veritable   aids    and 
pinions,  the  lack  of  which  is  severely  felt 
in  prose.     Perhaps  he  suffers,  like  Claudio, 
"  from  too  much  liberty." 

As  regards  the  stern  aloofness  from 
prose,  if  one  had  to  seek  a  parallel  with 
Tennyson  in  the  past  probably  most  peo- 

242 


THE   PROSE  OF   POETS 

pie  would  >.-u  his  greatest  exemplar  was 
Shakespeare.  In  a  sense  it  is  true;  and 
what  would  one  not  give  thai  it  were  other- 
wise! "The  Letters  of  William  Shake- 
speare"—  wh.-il  mighl  not  the  man  deserve 
of  us  who  should  discover  those?  Ten 
thousand  Bacons  with  ben  thousand  ciphers 
would  give  us  never  a  thrill  like  to  thai  ! 
We  would  not  ask  for  "  Sliake>peare\s 
Love-Letters."  Hut  Shakespeare's  corre- 
spondence with  his  private  friends  —  a  let- 
ter from  the  pleasant  Will  to  truculent  old 
Ben  appointing  a  meeting  at  the  Mer- 
maid! What  are  the  treasures  of  our 
archives,  the  epistles  of  kings,  and  the 
musty  solemnities  of  ambassadors,  to  these 
treasures  which  no  archives  have  pre- 
served? Why  has  the  relaxing  hand  of 
Time  yielded  to  us  letters  of  Elizabethan 
maids-of-honor  and  gossiping  hangers-on 
of  courts,  hut  never  retained  one  letter  of 
the  age's  true  king?  Time  is  a  courtier, 
and  looks  on  things  with  the  perspective  of 
solemn-nodding  Burleigh. 

■j  i.; 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Yet  though  Shakespeare  bequeathed  us 
neither  letters  nor  essays,  not  so  much  as 
a  pamphlet,  he  has  not  left  us  without 
means  of  estimating  what  his  touch  would 
have  been  in  prose.  There  is,  of  course, 
the  plentiful  prose-dialogue  scattered 
through  his  plays.  But  this  can  only  in- 
directly give  us  any  notion  of  what  might 
have  been  his  power  as  a  prose-writer. 
Dramatic  and  impersonal,  it  is  directed  to 
reproducing  the  conversational  style  of  his 
period,  as  developed  among  the  picturesque 
and  varying  classes  of  Elizabethan  men 
and  women.  It  is  one  thing  with  Rosalind, 
another  with  Orlando,  another  with  Bea- 
trice, another  with  Mistress  Ford  or  Mas- 
ter Page,  and  yet  another  with  his  fools 
or  clowns.  Thersites  differs  from  Ape- 
mantus,  plain-spoken  old  Lafeu  from 
plain-spoken  Kent.  At  the  most  we  might 
conjecture  hence  how  Shakespeare  talked. 
And  if  there  be  anywhere  a  suggestion  of 
Shakespeare's  talk,  we  would  look  for  it 
not  so  much  in  the  overpowering  richness 

"I  I 


THE  PROSE  OF   POETS 

of  Falstaff,  as  in  the  li^-ht,  urbane,  good- 
humored  pleasantry  of  Prince  Hal. 
Prince  Hal  is  evidently  a  model  of  the 
cultivated,  quick-witted,  intelligent  gentle- 
man unbending  himself  in  boon  society. 
In  his  li^'lit  dexterity,  his  high-spirited 
facility,  one  serins  to  discern  a  reminder  of 
the  nimble-witted  Shakespeare,  as  Pul- 
ler portrays  him  in  the  encounters  at  the 
Mermaid.  No  less  do  the  vein  of  inter 
mittent  seriousness  running  through  his 
talk,  the  touches  of  slightly  scornful  mel- 
ancholy, conform  to  one's  idea  of  what 
Shakespeare  may  have  been  in  society. 
One  can  imagine  him,  in  some  fit  of  disgust 
with  his  companions  such  as  prompted  the 
sonnets  complaining  of  his  trade,  uttering 
the  contemptuous  retort  of  Prince  Hal  to 
1'oins:  "It  would  be  every  man's  thought, 
and  thou  art  a  blessed  fellow  to  think  as 
every  man  thinks;  never  a  man's  thought 
in  the  world  keeps  I li<  roadway  better  than 
thine." 

But   this    is    to    consider    too    curiously. 
•J  1 5 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Let  us  rather  take  the  passages  which  have 
a  more  conversational  structure.  The 
most  famous  is  the  speech  of  Brutus  to 
the  Romans: 

"  If  there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any 
dear  friend  of  Caesar,  to  him  I   say  that 
Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was  no  less  than  his. 
If,  then,  that  friend  demand  why  Brutus 
rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  m}r  answer,  not 
that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved 
Rome  more.      Had  you  rather  Caesar  were 
living,  and  die  all  slaves ;  than  that  Caesar 
were  dead,  to  live  all  free  men?     As  Caesar 
loved  me,  I  weep  for  him  ;  as  he  was  for- 
tunate, I  rejoice  at  it;  as  he  was  valiant, 
I  honor  him  ;  but,  as  he  was  ambitious,  I 
slew  him.      There  is  tears,  for  his  love  ;  joy, 
for  his  fortune ;  honor,  for  his  valor ;  and 
death,  for  his  ambition.     Who  is  here  so 
base  that  would  be  a  bondsman?     If  any, 
speak  ;  for  him  have  I  offended.      Who  is 
here  so  rude  that  would  not  be  a  Roman? 
If  any,   speak  ;   for   him   have   I   offended. 
Who  is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his 

216 


THE   PROSE  01    POETS 

country?     It'  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I 
offended.     I   pause   for  a   reply." 

This  noble  speech  would  alone  prove  that 
Shakespeare  had  a  master's  touch  in  prose. 
The  balance,  the  antithesis,  the  tersen 
the  grave  simplicity  of  diction,  make  it  a 
model    in    its    kind.      Ye\    one    can    hardly 
say  that  thi^  is  the  fashion  in  which  Shake 
speare   would   have   written   prose,   had   he 
used   that    vehicle   apart    from   the  drama. 
It  was  written  in  this  manner  for  a  special 
purpose  —  to    imitate    the    Laconic    style 
which    Plutarch    records    thai    Brutus    af- 
fected.    Its    laconisms,    therefore,    exhibit 
no  tendency   of  the  's  own.     To  find 

a  passage  which  we  do  believe  to  show  his 
native  style  we  must  again  go  to  Prince 
Hal,  in  his  after-character  of  Henry  V. 
'I'hc  whole  of  the  King's  encounter  with 
tlie  soldiers,  who  lav  on  his  shoulders  the 
private  consequences  of  war,  affords  admir- 
able specimens  of  prose.  But  i'i  particu- 
lar we  quote  as  much  ice  will  allow 
of  his  chief  defensive  utterance ; 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

"  There  is  no  king,  be  his  cause  never 
so  spotless,  if  it  come  to  the  arbitrament 
of  swords,  can  try  it  out  with  all  unspotted 
soldiers.  Some,  peradventure,  have  on 
them  the  guilt  of  premeditated  and  con- 
trived murder;  some,  of  beguiling  virgins 
with  the  broken  seals  of  perjury;  some, 
making  the  wars  their  bulwark,  that  have 
before  gored  the  gentle  bosom  of  peace 
with  pillage  and  robbery.  Now,  if  these 
men  have  defeated  the  law,  and  outrun  na- 
tive punishment,  though  they  can  outstrip 
men,  they  have  no  wings  to  fly  from  God: 
war  is  His  beadle,  war  is  His  vengeance; 
so  that  here  men  are  punished,  for  before 
breach  of  the  King's  laws,  in  now  the 
King's  quarrel:  where  they  feared  the 
death,  they  have  borne  life  away ;  and 
where  they  would  be  safe,  they  perish. 
Then  if  the}^  die  unprovided,  no  more  is 
the  King  guilty  of  their  damnation,  than 
he  was  before  guilty  of  those  impieties  for 
the  which  they  are  now  visited.  Every 
subject's    duty    is    the    King's,    but    every 

248 


THE   PROSE  oi     POETS 

subject's  soul  is  his  own.  Therefore 
should  every  soldier  in  the  wars  do  as  every 

sick  man  in  his  bed,  wash  every  mote  out 
of  his  conscience;  and  dying  so,  death  is  to 
him  advantage:  or  not  dying,  the  time  was 
blessedly    lost,    wherein    such    preparation 

was  gained:  and  in  him  that  escapes,  it 
were  not  sin  to  tliink,  that  making  God  so 
free  an  offer,  He  let  him  outlive  that  day 
to  see  His  greatness,  and  to  teach  others 
how  they  should  prepare." 

The  whole  is  on  a  like  level,  and  it  is 
obvious  that  Shakespeare's  interest  in  his 
theme  has  caused  him  for  the  moment  to 
forsake  dramatic  propriety  by  adopting 
a  structure  much  more  complete  and  for- 
mal than  a  man  would  use  in  unpremedi- 
tated talk.  It  is  Shakespeare  defending  a 
thesis  with  the  pen,  rather  than  Henry  with 
the  tongue.  And  you  have,  in  conse- 
quence, a  fine  passage  of  prose,  quite  orig- 
inal in  movement  and  style,  unlike  other 
prose  of  the  period,  and  characteristic 
(we  venture  to  think)  of  Shakespeare  him- 

19 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

self.  You  would  know  that  style  again. 
Close-kn'it,  pregnant,  with  a  dexterous  use 
of  balance  and  antithesis,  it  is  yet  excel- 
lently direct,  fluent,  and  various,  the 
rhetorical  arts  carefully  restrained,  and  all 
insistence  on  them  avoided.  Despite  its 
closeness,  it  is  not  too  close ;  there  is  space 
for  free  motion :  and  it  has  a  masculine 
ring,  a  cut-and-thrust  fashion,  which  re- 
moves it  far  alike  from  pedantry  on  the 
one  hand  and  poetised  prose  on  the  other. 
Such,  or  something  after  this  manner, 
would  (we  think)  have  been  Shakespeare's 
native  style  in  prose :  not  the  ultra-formal 
style  he  put  (for  a  reason)  into  the  mouth 
of  Brutus.  We  have  chosen  it,  in  prefer- 
ence to  other  passages  which  might  have 
been  cited  bearing  a  similar  stamp,  because 
it  is  the  longest  and  most  fully-developed 
passage  in  which  dramatic  necessity  suf- 
fered the  poet  to  indulge  (except  that 
speech  of  Brutus  which,  we  have  shown, 
cannot  be  taken  as  typically  Shake- 
spearean ) . 

250 


THE   PROSE  01    POETS 

With  the  Baconian  dispute  recently  re- 
vived, it  is  interesting  to  ask  li<>\\  Mich  pas- 
sages compare  with  the  known  prose  of 
Bacon.  The  speech  of  Brutus  might  pos- 
sibly bo  Bacon's,  who  loved  the  sententious. 
lint  surely  not  a  typical  passage  such  as 
we  have  quoted.  Take  an  average  extract 
from  Bacon's  Essays: 

"  It  is  worth  observing  that  there  is  no 
passion  in  the  mind  of  man  so  weak,  hut 
it  mates  and  masters  the  fear  of  death; 
and  therefore,  death  is  no  such  terrible 
enemy  when  a  man  hath  so  many  attend- 
ants about  him  that  can  win  the  combat 
of  him.  Revenge  triumphs  over  death ; 
Love  delights  in  it;  Honor  aspireth  to  it; 
Grief  flieth  to  it  ;  nay,  we  read,  alter  Otho, 
the  emperor,  had  slain  himself.  Pity  (which 
is  the  tenderest  of  affections)  provoked 
manj  In  die,  out  of  mere  compassion  to 
their  Sovereign,  and  .as  the  truesl  sort  of 
followers." 

Grave,  cold,  -low,  affecting  an  aphoris- 
tic brevity,  and  erring   (when   it  does  err) 

25] 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

on  the  side  of  pedantry,  could  this  style 
take  on  the  virile  energy  and  freedom  of 
movement,  the  equipoise  of  concision  and 
fluency,  which  we  discern  in  Henry's 
speech,  as  in  all  Shakespeare's  charac- 
teristic passages?  We  cannot  think  it. 
And  that  other  style  of  Bacon's,  exempli- 
fied in  the  Reign  of  Henry  VII.,  expanded, 
formal,  in  the  slow-moving  and  rather 
cumbersome  periods  which  he  deems  ap- 
propriate to  historic  dignity,  is  yet  more 
distant  from  Shakespeare.  The  more  one 
studies  Shakespeare,  the  more  clearly  one 
perceives  in  him  a  latent  but  quite  individ- 
ual prose-style,  which,  had  he  worked  it 
out,  would  have  been  a  treasurable  addi- 
tion to  the  great  lineage  of  English  prose. 


252 


THE  PROSE  OF  POETS 
III 

BEX     JONSON 

ASKED  haphazard  to  name  the  poet-' 
who    were    also    prose-writers    (why 
have  we  not  developed  a  single  term   for 

the  thing,  like  the  French  prosateurf), 
few,  probably,  would  think  of  including 
Ben  Jonson.  There  is  some  reason  for 
not  thinking  of  Ben  as  a  prose-writer:  he 
never  produced  any  set  and  continuous 
work  in  prose  —  not  so  much  as  a  pam- 
phlet. All  he  has  left  us  is  a  collection 
called  Sylva  or  Timber,  corresponding  to 
the  memorabilia  of  what  we  now  call  a 
commonplace-book  (apparently  because 
it  contains  the  observations  which  a  man 
thinks  are  not  commonplace).  Vet  with 
relation  to  the  development  of  English 
prose,  Sylva  by  no  means  deserves  the 
neglect  which  its  disconnected  character 
has  brought  on  it;  nor  yet  in  its  relation 
to    the    {Treat    dramatist's    own     character. 

253 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

We  English  have  small  relish  for  apoph- 
thegms and  prose-brevities  in  general:  not 
among  us  would  a  La  Rochefoucauld,  a 
Pascal  of  the  Pensees,  a  La  Bruyere  have 
found  applause.  Selden,  or  Coleridge's 
Table-Talk,  the  exceedingly  witty  Char- 
acters of  Hudibras  Butler,  and  other  ad- 
mirable literature  of  the  kind,  go  virtually 
unread.  We  want  expansion  and  explana- 
tion ;  we  like  not  being  asked  to  comple- 
ment the  author's  wit  by  our  own.  So 
that  Sylva  had  small  chance,  were  it  bet- 
ter than  it  is. 

We  know  two  Ben  Jonsons,  it  may  be 
said  —  the  Ben  of  the  plays,  rugged, 
strong,  pedantic,  unsympathetic,  often 
heavy,  coarse  and  repellant  even  in  his 
humor,  where  he  is  strongest ;  and  the  Ben 
of  those  surprisingly  contrasting  lyrics, 
all  too  few ;  small,  delicate,  and  exquisite. 
It  is  as  though  Vulcan  took  to  working 
in  filigree.  Here,  in  Sylva,  is  another 
Ben,  who  increases  our  estimation  of  the 
man.     We  have   often   thought  there  was 

254 


THI.    I'KOSJ.   Dl     I'OETS 

a  measure  of  affinity  between  the  two  Jolin- 
gona  -  Ben  and  Sam.  Their  surnames 
are  the  same,  save  in  spelling;  both  have 
a  Scriptural  Christian  name;  both  were 
large  and  burly  men,  of  strong,  unbeau- 
tiful  countenance — "  a  mountain  belly  and 
a  rocky  face  "  the  dramatist  ascribed  to 
himself.  Both  were  convivial  spirits,  with 
a  magnetic  tendency  to  form  a  personal 
following;  ''the  tribe  of  Ben  v  was  par- 
alleled by  the  tribe  of  Samuel.  Both  were 
men  distinguished  for  learning  unusual 
among  the  literary  men  of  their  time. 
Both  carried  it  over  the  verge  of  ped- 
antry, and  at  the  same  time  had  strong 
sense.  Both  were  notably  combative. 
Both  were  mighty  talkers,  and  founded 
famous  literary  clubs  which  made  the 
"Mermaid"  and  the  "Mitre"  illustrious 
among  taverns.  Both,  it  seems  pretty 
sure,  were  overbearing.  You  can  imagine 
Benjamin  as  ready  to  browbeat  a  man  as 
Samuel.  There  the  parallel  ends;  Ben  was 
not  distinguished  for  religiosity  or  benev- 

255 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

olence,  Ben  was  never  cited  as  a  moralist. 
But  in  Sylva,  it  seems  to  us,  we  pick  it 
up  again. 

There  is  the  strong  common-sense,  and 
the  uncommon  sense,  which  we  find  in  the 
Doctor's  talk ;  there  is  the  directness,  the 
straightness  to  the  point.  There  is,  more- 
over, a  robust  manliness,  an  eye  which 
discerns,  and  a  hand  which  strikes  for  the 
pith  of  any  matter,  a  contained  vigor 
which  wastes  no  stroke.  In  all  these 
points  we  find  an  analogy  with  the  later 
man ;  and  though  they  might  have  been 
surmised  from  Ben  Jonson's  poetry,  they 
appear  in  a  light  more  favorable,  from 
the  absence  of  violence  or  coarseness,  the 
compression  to  which  the  writer  has  sub- 
jected himself.  Even  the  style  is  not 
without  analogies  to  the  spoken  style  of 
the  great  conversationalist  —  so  different 
from  his  written  style.  It  has  nothing 
of  the  occasional  stateliness,  the  Latinities, 
which  appeared  even  in  the  Doctor's  talk. 
But    on    the    Doctor's    vernacular    side    it 

256 


THE   PROS].   ()!■■    POETS 

has  its  kinships.      It  is  clean,  hardy,  well- 
knit,     excellently      idiomatic;     pithy     and 
well-poised     as     an      English     cudgel.       Its 
marked  tendency  to  the  use  of  balance   i 
a    further  Johnsonian    affinity.      We   would 

not,  however,  be  understood  to  say  that  it 

is  like  the  style  of  Johnson's  talk.  It  is 
individual,  and  has  the  ring  common  to 
the  Elizabethan  style.  But  it  has  certain 
qualities  which  seem  to  us  akin  to  the  spirit 
of  Johnson's  talk.  One  striking  feature 
is  its  modernity.  It  is  more  modern  than 
Shakespeare's  prose.  There  are  many 
sentences  which,  with  the  alteration  of  a 
word  or  so,  the  substitution  of  a  modern 
for  an  archaic  inflection,  would  pass  for 
very  good  and  pure  modern  prose.  It 
IS  singular  that  prose  so  vernacular  should 
have  had  no  successor,  and  that  so  wide 
an  interval  should  have  elapsed  between 
him  and  Dry  den. 

Yet,  if  Jonson  influenced  no  follower, 
it  certainly  deserves  more  notice  than  it 
has     received    that,     thus    early,     prose    so 

257 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

native,  showing  so  much  the  mettle  of  its 
English  pasture,  could  be  written.  The 
average  style  is  seen  at  once  in  such  a 
passage  as  this: 

"  No  man  is  so  foolish,  but  may  give 
another  good  counsel  sometimes ;  and  no 
man  is  so  wise,  but  may  easily  err,  if  he 
will  take  no  other  counsel  but  his  own. 
But  very  few  men  are  wise  by  their  own 
counsel,  or  learned  by  their  own  teaching. 
For  he  that  was  only  taught  by  himself, 
hath  a  fool  for  a  master." 

Save  for  the  antiquated  inflection  of 
"  hath,"  that  is  modern  enough.  Johnson 
could  put  a  thing  with  almost  —  or  quite 
—  brutal  terseness ;  but  Ben  is  still  more 
uncompromisingly  effective,  as  in  the  last 
sentence   of  the  following  quotation: 

"  Many  men  believe  not  themselves 
what  they  would  persuade  others,  and  less 
do  the  things  which  they  would  impose 
on  others.  .  .  .  Only  they  set  the 
sign  of  the  Cross  over  their  outer  doors, 

258 


THE  PROSE  OF   POETS 

and  sacrifice  to  their  guts  and  their  groin 
in  their  inner  closets." 

It  has  not  the  sweetness  and  light  of 
modern  culture;  it  is  ursine:  hut  it  sticks 
in  the  memory.  It  is  interesting,  in  read 
ing  Sylva,  to  note  that  Jonson  had  al- 
ready formed  an  opinion  on  the  contest 
between  the  Ancients  and  Moderns,  long 
before  it  became  a  burning  question  in 
the  latter  seventeenth,  and  brought  forth 
Swift's  Battle  of  the  Hooks  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  His  opinion  shows  the 
clear  and  balanced  good  sense  characteris- 
tic of  his  judgment  throughout  the  book. 
If  any  man  might  have  been  looked  for 
to  be  a  bigoted  champion  of  the  Ancients, 
it  was  Jonson,  who  marred  his  own  work 
and  would  have  gone  hard  to  mar  that  of 
others  by  his  pedantic  Insistence  on  classi 
cal  authority,  and  lamented  Shakespeare's 
"  little  Latin  and  less  Greek."  Vet  he 
maintains  a  clear-sighted  attitude  of  re- 
spectful   independence.     The    passage    is 

259 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

worth  quoting  in  itself ;  and  not  less  for 
the  manly  and  finely-expressed  vindication 
of  an  author's  rights  to  which  it  leads: 

"  I  know  nothing  can  conduce  more  to 
letters  than  to  examine  the  writings  of  the 
Ancients,    and   not    to    rest    in    their    sole 
authority,    or    take    all    upon    trust    from 
them:  provided  the  plague  of  judging  and 
pronouncing  against  them  be  away,  such 
as  are  envy,  bitterness,  precipitation,  im- 
pudence and  scurrile  scoffing.     For  to  all 
the  observations  of  the  Ancients,  we  have 
our  own  experience ;  which  if  we  will  use 
and  apply,  we  have  better  means  to  pro- 
nounce.    It  is  true  they  opened  the  gates, 
and  made  the   way   that  went  before   us ; 
but  as  guides,  not  commanders. 

"  If  in  some  things  I  dissent  from  others, 
whose  wit,  industry,  diligence,  and  judg- 
ment I  look  up  to  and  admire;  let  me  not 
therefore  hear  presently  of  ingratitude 
and  rashness.  For  I  thank  those  that  have 
taught  me,  and  will  ever ;  but  yet  dare  not 
think  the  scope  of  their  labor  and  inquiry 

260 


THE  PROSE  OF  POETS 

was  to  envy  their  posterity  what  they  also 
could  add  and  find  out. 

"  If  I  err,  pardon  me;  nulla  ars  si  mid  et 
invent  a  est,  ft  ab8oluta.  I  do  not  desire 
to  be  equal  to  those  that  went  before;  but 
to  have  my  reasons  examined  with  theirs, 
and  so  much  faith  to  be  given  them,  or 
me,  as  those  shall  evict.  I  am  neither 
author  nor  fautor  of  any  sect.  I  will 
have  no  man  addict  himself  to  me;  but  if 
I  have  anything  right,  defend  it  as 
Truth's,  not  mine,  save  as  it  conduceth  to 
a  common  good.  It  profits  me  not  to  have 
any  man  fence  or  fight  for  me,  to  flourish, 
or  take  my  side.  Stand  for  Truth,  and 
'tis  enough." 

The  last  paragraph,  in  particular,  is  a 
noble  utterance  nobly  written.  Save  for 
the  word  "  evict "  where  we  should  say 
"  evince,"  it  is  of  notable  modernity  in 
diction  and  style ;  nor  will  any  lover  of 
prose  refuse  admiration  to  its  compact 
and  firm-poised  structure,  its  clear,  bold, 
and  just  expression.     It  is  (so  to  speak) 

261 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

all  bone  and  muscle,  as  a  passage  of  warm 
yet  reasoned  defence  ought  to  be.  One 
cannot  but  smile  a  little,  none  the  less,  at 
Ben's  disclaimer  of  sects,  his  "  I  will  have 
no  man  addict  himself  to  me  " :  Ben,  the 
focus  of  disciples  and  leader  in  many  a  lit- 
erary fracas.  Yet,  despite  his  upholding 
of  the  just  rights  of  the  present  against 
the  past,  he  was  not  satisfied  with  the  pres- 
ent. It  is  a  strange  fact  that  the  com- 
plaints of  decadence  in  letters,  which  we 
hear  now,  come  to  us  like  an  echo  from  the 
pages  of  the  Sylva.  In  one  passage  he 
observes : 

"  I  cannot  but  think  Nature  is  so  spent 
and  decayed,  that  she  can  bring  forth  noth- 
ing worth  her  former  years.  She  is  al- 
ways the  same,  like  herself,  and  when  she 
collects  her  strength,  is  abler  still.  Men 
are  decayed,  and  studies ;  she  is  not." 

Who  could  conceive  that  this  last  pessi- 
mist sentence  was  written  by  the  friend  of 
Shakespeare,  the  sharer  in  the  glorious 
prime  of  English  literature,  and  one  of  the 

•262 


THE   PROSE  OF  POETS 

great  literary  periods  of  the  world?  Even 
in  his  d.iv  he  evidently  felt  the  paucity  of 
true  appreciation: 

"  There  is  a  more  secret  cause  [he  says], 
and  the  power  of  liberal  studies  lies  more 
hid,  than  that  it  can  be  wroughl  out  by  pro- 
fane wits.  It  is  not  every  man's  way  to  hit. 
.  .  .  It  is  as  great  a  spite  to  be  praised 
in  the  wrong  place,  and  by  a  wrong  per- 
son, as  can  In  done  to  a  noble  nature." 

Apparently  in  Jonson's  day  the  lampoon 
and  the  scurrilous  verse  took  the  place  of 
the  society  tattle  which  we  now*  complain 
of  as  a  bane  of  the  Press;  and  he  speaks 
bitterly  of  these  things.  Nay,  if  we  are  to 
believe  him,  the  contempt  which  nowadays 
clings  to  the  name  of  poet,  and  which  we 
suppose  a  consequence  of  modern  degen- 
eracy, was  active  in  his  time  —  the  day  of 
the  greatest  poetic  literature  England  has 
seen.  So  little  has  John  Bull  really 
changed  his  ways !     Hear  Jonson  : 

"Then  men  were  had  in  price  for  learn- 
ing; now  it  only  makes  men  vile.     He  is 

26S 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

upbraidingly  called  a  poet,  as  if  it  were 
a  contemptible  nickname :  but  the  profes- 
sors, indeed,  have  made  the  learning  cheap. 
Railing  and  tinkling  rhymers,  whose  writ- 
ings the  vulgar  more  greedily  read,  as 
being  taken  with  the  scurrility  and  pet- 
ulance of  such  wits.  He  shall  not  have 
a  reader  now,  unless  he  jeer  and  lie.  It 
is  the  food  of  men's  natures,  the  diet  of 
the  times :  gallants  cannot  sleep  else ! 
The  writer  must  lie,  and  the  gentle  reader 
rests  happy  to  hear  the  worthiest  works 
misinterpreted,  the  clearest  actions  ob- 
scured, the  innocentest  life  traduced:  and 
in  such  a  license  of  lying,  a  field  so  fruit- 
ful of  slanders,  how  can  there  be  matter 
wanting  to  his  laughter?  Hence  comes 
the  epidemical  infection :  for  how  can 
they  escape  the  contagion  of  the  writings, 
whom  the  virulency  of  the  calumnies  hath 
not  staved  off  from  reading?  " 

Note,  by  the  way,  Jonson's  curious  im- 
personal use  of  the  word  "  he,"  in  the 
sense  of  the  French  on,  or  our  idiomatic 

264 


THE  PEOSE  OF  POETS 

"you,"  meaning  "such  a  one,"  "persons 
in  general."  Might  not  this  be  a  diatribe 
against  the  "  personal  paragraph "  and 
its  kind?  When,  indeed,  was  that  time  at 
which  learning  was  "  held  in  price,"  which 
recedes  further  back  as  we  pursue  it? 
But  one  soon  gets  a  suspicion  that  Ben's 
picture  is  to  be  taken  with  many  grains 
of  salt.  For  presently  his  complaints 
take  a  personal  form,  and  we  begin  to 
conjecture  that  these  passages  were  largely 
influenced  by  recent  attacks  under  which 
the  poet  himself  was  smarting.  "  But," 
he  concludes  indignantly,  and  not  un- 
worthily, "  they  are  rather  enemies  of  my 
fame  than  me,  these  barkers."  Still,  it 
is  an  interesting  glimpse  into  Elizabethan 
literature  as  it  presented  itself  to  an  actor 
in  the  scene.  Such  glimpses,  and  the 
knowledge  of  Ben  Jonson  as  a  man  of 
sound  and  incisive  judgment  no  less  than 
a  poet,  make  the  Sylva  interesting  apart 
from  its  manner.  And  the  style,  as  we 
have    shown,     if    not     actually     great,    is 

265 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

strong,  honest,  and  native,  deserving  to 
be  considered  in  any  estimate  of  our  earlier 
English  prose. 

IV 

GOLDSMITH 

IN  the  prose-style  of  that  delightful 
poet  and  universal  man  of  letters,  Oli- 
ver Goldsmith,  the  man  himself  counts  for 
so  much  that  it  is  impossible  to  write  of  one 
without  the  other.  One  can  trace  the 
derivations  of  that  style,  it  is  true ;  one  can 
discern  that  it  owes  much  to  French  in- 
fluence. Style  does  not  come  out  of  the 
blue,  be  it  ever  so  native  to  the  man,  and 
however  authentic  his  genius.  But  when 
you  have  recognised  its  Gallic  derivation, 
that  which  gives  it  breath  of  life,  and 
radiates  from  it  in  personal  fascination, 
is  Goldsmith  himself  —  the  careless  Gold- 
smith, the  much-tired  Goldsmith,  the  sweet- 
natured  Goldsmith,  the  Goldsmith  who 
took    his    troubles    like    a    happy-go-lucky 

266 


THE   PROSE  OF  POETS 

child:  an  Irish  child  withal,  bright,  emo- 
tional, and  candid.  Yet  all  this  would 
not  have  produced  the  inexpressibly  ex- 
hilarating mixture  we  call  Goldsmith, 
limpid  and  effervescent,  touched  with  the 
simplest  sentiment,  enriched  with  the  mosl 
varied  experience,  unfailing  in  dexterous 
grace,  had  this  Irish  child  not  been  also 
a  child  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Into 
this  artificial,  unruffled  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, which  made  composure  not  merely 
an  inward  ideal  but  an  external  law,  was 
borne  this  Celtic  child,  uttering  himself 
right  out  with  a  modern  sincerity,  and 
an  unconsciousness  not  often  modern. 
The  result,  at  its  best,  is  a  combination 
of  qualities  singularly  piquant  and  un- 
reproducible.  Bom  into  the  nineteenth 
century  with  such  a  temperament,  a  life 
so  troublous  and  largely  manquS,  Gold- 
smith would  have  had  the  weltschmerz 
pretty  badly.  He  would  have  wailed  the 
impossibility  of  things;  he  would  have 
taken    the    bandage    from    his    sores;    his 

267 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

gaiety  would  have  been  dashed  with  some 
eclipse.  Born  into  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, he  had  no  encouragement  to  the  in- 
dulgence of  world-smart.  He  kept  his 
sores  under  decent  covering,  knowing 
there  was  small  sympathy  for  literary 
groans ;  he  looked  neither  back  nor  for- 
ward, took  the  hour  as  it  came,  and  piped 
against  his  troubles  if  Fate  gave  him  half 
a  chance.  That  European  tour,  when 
half  scholarly  impostor,  half  minstrel,  he 
alternately  challenged  disputants  (not 
forthcoming)  and  fluted  for  a  living,  is 
a  type  of  his  whole  career.  The  Irishman 
of  that  character  no  longer  exists ;  and 
if  personal  dignity  gains  by  his  vanish- 
ing, the  gaiety  of  nations  suffers.  No 
wonder  that  the  dignifiedly  Britannic,  and 
a  trifle  priggish,  Johnsonian  circle  was 
half  scandalised  by  the  advent  amongst 
it  of  this  improvident  creature  of  Nature. 
Johnson,  sternly  moralising  under  ad- 
versity,   meets    Goldie    piping    against    it, 

268 


THE   PROSE  OF   POETS 

and  shakes  his  unambrosial  wig.  Yet  it 
says  much  for  the  formidable  old  Doctor 
that  he  seems  to  have  appreciated  the 
simple,  sweet-natured  genius  better  than 
the  rest  of  bis  circle.  It  is  the  fashion 
to  discredit  Boswell's  stories  of  Goldsmith 
on  the  ground  of  envy.  Jealous  they 
self-evident  ly  are,  but  they  are  too  racy 
of  the  Goldsmith  soil  not  to  be  true.  The 
tui'if  vanity  is  the  vanity  of  a  child.  One 
can  imagine  Goldie  breaking  his  shins  in 
imitating  a  mountebank  —  and  laugh  with 
kindly  amusement.  Where  talk  was 
supremely  valued,  he  would  plunge  in, 
sink  or  swim.  But  only  that  bewigged 
eighteenth  century  circle  could  sneer  at 
him  for  the  harmless  weakness.  lie  knew 
he  had  the  brilliance  in  him.  and  pathet- 
ically hoped  he  could  teach  it  to  shine  at 
the  call  of  the  moment.  A  little  ugly 
man,  slow-tongued  and  unattractive  to 
women,  he  sought  indemnity  for  his 
maimed  life  in   plum-colored  coats,  Tokay, 

269 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

t 

and  the  sorry  loves  of  Covent  Garden. 
"  Goldie  was  wild,  sir,"  and  small  cause 
for  wonder. 

But  all  that  weakness  is  strength  in  his 
charming  prose.  There  was  valiance, 
could  the  Doctor  have  seen  it,  in  that  clear 
fountain  of  gaiety  which  turned  all  his 
misfortunes  to  brightness  and  favor.  It 
is  his  sunny  wit  and  sweet  heart  which 
clarifies  his  style ;  his  lovable  humor  draws 
for  us  perpetual  refreshment  from  the 
vicissitudes  of  a  life  as  hard  as  ever  fell 
to  struggling  poet.  What  modern  writer 
is  brave  child  enough  to  extract  sunshine 
from  the  recollection  of  his  own  darkest 
hours?  A  more  admirable  example  you 
could  not  have  of  Goldsmith's  prose  than 
that  exquisitely  sly  description  of  George's 
search  for  a  living  in  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field. Yet  small  was  the  laughter  in  the 
experiences  which  furnished  it  to  poor 
Goldie ;  and  it  was  written  while  he  was 
still  struggling  for  bread.  Well-known 
though    it   be,    one   cannot   resist   quoting 

270 


THE   PROSE  OF   POETS 

the  portion   concerning  George's  cognos- 
cente cousin :  — 

"  I  was  the  more  surprised  at  seeing 
our  cousin  pitched  upon  for  this  office, 
as  he  himself  had  often  assured  me  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  Upon  ask- 
ing how  he  had  been  taught  the  art  of  a 
cognoscente  so  very  suddenly  he  assured 
me  that  nothing  was  more  easy.  The 
whole  secret  consisted  in  a  strict  adherence 
to  two  rules :  the  one,  always  to  observe 
that  the  picture  might  have  been  better 
if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains ;  and 
the  other,  to  praise  the  works  of  Pietro 
Perugino.  ...  I  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised at  his  intimacy  with  people  of  the 
best  fashion,  who  referred  themselves  to 
his  judgment  upon  every  picture  or  medal 
as  an  unerring  standard  of  taste.  lie 
made  very  good  use  of  my  assistance  up- 
on these  occasions,  for  when  asked  hi> 
opinion  he  would  gravely  take  me  aside 
and  ask  mine,  shrug,  look  wise,  return, 
and  assure  the  company  that  he  could  give 

'.'71 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

no  opinion  upon  an  affair  of  so  much  im- 
portance. Yet  there  was  sometimes  an 
occasion  for  a  more  supported  assurance. 
I  remember  to  have  seen  him,  after  giving 
his  opinion  that  the  coloring  of  a  picture 
was  not  mellow  enough,  very  deliberately 
take  a  brush  with  brown  varnish  that  was 
accidentally  lying  by,  and  rub  it  over  the 
piece  with  great  composure,  before  all  the 
company,  and  then  ask  if  he  had  not  im- 
proved the  tints." 

The  narrative  is  saturated  with  humor 
as  delicate  as  it  is  buoyant,  and  kindly 
with  large  good  nature  towards  the  very 
rogues  and  blockheads  who  have  set  their 
heels  on  the  helpless  seeker  for  bread. 
The  mere  technique  is  that  of  a  master: 
every  sentence  deftly  shaped,  yet  easy  as 
the  song  of  a  bird ;  the  phrase  unobtru- 
sively perfect,  as  we  have  lost  the  art  of 
perfecting  it  in  our  self-conscious  age. 
He  had,  indeed,  the  great  heritage  of 
eighteenth  century  prose,  which  a  succes- 
sion of  masters  had  shaped  to  the  purposes 

272 


THE  PROSE  OF  POETS 
of  wit  and  humor.     But  he  had  lightened 

it,   made   it    nimble  and   touched   it    with   an 

artless  seeming  grace,  as  it   never  was  be 
fore.     This  in  the  very  day  when  Johnson 
had  compelled  English  prose  to  the  follow- 
ing of  his  own  deep-draughted  movement. 

Yet,  by  a  singular  stretch  of  blind  .jeal- 
ousy, Boswell  and  others  accused  him  of 
imitating  the  Gargantuan   Doctor! 

Perhaps  Johnson  may  have  had  some  in- 
fluence on  his  serious  and  "elevated'' 
style,  which  is  antithetic  and  not  a  little 
rhetorical : 

"  Though  poverty  and  self-contempt 
are  all  the  wages  of  his  goodwill  from 
mankind,  yet  the  rectitude  of  his  inten- 
tion is  an  ample  recompense;  and  self- 
applause  for  the  present,  and  the  alluring 
prospect  of  fame  for  futurity,  reward  his 
labors." 

That  is  much  too  formal  for  our  modern 
taste,  and,  indeed,  we  care  little  for  Gold- 
smith when  he  gets  on  horseback.  Perhaps 
Johnson,    also,    taught     him    compactness 

273 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

of  structure  and  grammatical  accuracy, 
which  are  invaluable  even  in  his  lightest 
style.  But  though  he  "  touched  nothing 
he  did  not  adorn,"  and  was  as  irresistible 
in  the  pathos  of  poor  Olivia  as  in  the 
humors  of  Mr.  Jenkinson  or  Miss  Carolina 
Wilhelmina  Skeggs,  it  is  as  a  comedian 
that  one  loves  him  best.  That  gay  humor 
could  pass  from  demure  slyness  to  the 
most  buoyant  farce;  and  the  combination 
of  extravagance  with  the  deftest  delicacy 
is  perhaps  his  most  characteristic  and 
felicitous  achievement.  Beau  Tibbs,  in 
the  Citizen  of  the  World,  is  farce;  but 
farce  which  nowadays  would  pass  for 
comedy.  Take  —  for  it  is  seasonable  at 
this  moment  —  the  Beau  on  the  Corona- 
tion : 

"  His  whole  mind  was  blazoned  over 
with  a  variety  of  glittering  images ; 
coronets,  escutcheons,  lace,  fringe,  tassels, 
stones,  bugles,  and  spun  glass.  '  Here,' 
cries  he,  '  Garter  is  to  walk ;  and  there 
Rouge  Dragon  marches  with  the  escutch- 

274 


THE   PROSE  OF  POET> 

cons     on     his     hack.      Here     Clarencieux 

moves  forward;  and  there  Blue  Mantle  dis 
dains  to  be  left  behind.  Here  the  Alder 
nun  march  two  and  two;  and  there  the 
undaunted  Champion  of  England,  no  uav 
terrified  at  the  very  numerous  appearance 
of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  rides  forward  in 
complete  armor,  and,  with  an  intrepid  air, 
throws  down  the  glove.  Ah,'  continued 
he,  '  should  any  be  so  hardy  as  to  take 
up  that  fatal  glove  .  .  .  we  should 
see  fine  sport ;  the  champion  would  show 
him  no  mercy-  .  .  .  However,  I  am 
afraid  we  shall  have  none  willing  to  try 
it  with  him  .  .  .  for  two  reasons ; 
first,  because  his  antagonist  would  stand 
a  chance  of  being  killed  in  the  single  com- 
bat; and  secondly,  because,  if  he  escapes 
the  champion's  arm,  he  would  certainly 
be  hanged  for  treason.'  " 

But  it  is  the  milliner's  side  of  the  cere- 
mony that  moves  Mr.  Tibbs  to  his  highest 
raptures. 

"'For    my     own     part."     continued     he, 
275 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

'  I  know  already  of  fifteen  suits  of  clothes 
that  would  stand  on  one  end  with  gold 
lace,  all  designed  to  be  first  shown  there ; 
and  as  for  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds,  and 
pearls,  we  shall  see  them  as  thick  as  brass 
nails  in  a  sedan  chair.  And  then  we  are 
all  to  walk  so  majestically,  thus;  this  foot 
always  behind  the  foot  before.  The  ladies 
are  to  fling  nosegays ;  the  Court  poets 
to  scatter  verses ;  the  spectators  are  to  be 
all  in  full  dress ;  Mrs.  Tibbs  in  a  new 
sacque,  ruffles,  and  frenched  hair;  look 
where  you  will,  one  thing  finer  than  an- 
other. Mrs.  Tibbs  curtsies  to  the  Duch- 
ess ;  her  Grace  returns  the  compliment  with 
a  bow.  "  Largess,"  cries  the  Herald. 
"  Make  room,"  cries  the  Gentleman  Usher. 
"  Knock  him  down,"  cries  the  guard.  Ah,' 
continued  he,  amazed  at  his  own  descrip- 
tion, '  what  an  astonishing  sense  of  grand- 
eur can  art  produce  from  the  smallest  cir- 
cumstance when  it  thus  actually  turns  to 
wonder  one  man  putting  on  another  man's 
hat ! '  " 

276 


THE   PROSE  01    POETS 

But  Beau  Tibba  is  too  great  to  be  dis- 
played in  a  mere  extract;  he  must  be  read 
entire.  Why,  indeed,  is  there  no  popular 
reprint  of  the  Citizen  of  the  World? 
Why  is  Goldsmith  unknown  at  the  present 
day  by  that  delightful  series  of  papers? 
If  the  cream  of  Ins  comedy  be  in  the  plays 
and  the  Vicar,  yet,  for  the  sake  of  Beau 
Tibbs  alone,  the  Citizen  should  be  resus- 
citated. And  if  this  inadequate  article 
sends  one  fresh  reader  to  those  neglected 
essays,  it  will  not  have  been  written  use- 
lessly. 


277 


SARTOR  RE-READ 

THERE  is  a  certain  tremor  in  return- 
ing to  a  book  which  has  been  an 
avatar  to  one's  youth,  an  author  who  has 
been  among  the  authentic  gods  of  one's 
dawning  years.  Can  that  early  impres- 
sion survive  the  hard  light  of  settled  judg- 
ment? How  many  a  figure  which  once 
loomed  to  us  colossal  has  shrunk  to  mosl 
human  dimensions  in  that  searching  light! 
To  one  it  is  the  Byron  of  his  youth  that 
has  thus  wilted  away ;  to  another  the 
Tennyson  that  has  revealed  unsuspected 
limitations.  However,  a  final  judgment 
may  resolve  that  the  divinity,  after  all, 
was  there.  It  is  an  experiment  nigh  as 
dubious  as  the  re-reading  of  young  love- 
letters.  These  reflections  arc  suggested 
to  us  by  turning  over  the  elaborate  new 

279 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

edition  of  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  edited  for 
Messrs.  Black  by  Mr.  J.  A.  S.  Barrett. 
It  is  an  excellent  edition  in  most  respects, 
with  a  quite  admirable  introduction ; 
though  the  incessant  foot-notes  irritatingly 
insist  on  informing  us  about  everything, 
from  the  situation  of  Downing-street  to 
that  of  Otaheite.  But  what  concerned  us 
was  apart  from  all  editions.  It  was  how 
Sartor  would  read,  thus  verily  Resartus, 
by  matured  judgment,  after  having  long 
lain  on  the  shelf  of  reverencing  memory. 
On  the  whole,  there  was  small  need  for 
fear.  What  it  loses  in  perception  of  de- 
fects (and  that  mostly  discounted  by 
general  knowledge  of  the  Carlylean  weak- 
nesses) it  gains  by  deeper  perception  of  its 
fundamental  depths.  What  first  strikes 
you  is  the  remaining  evidences  in  it  of 
what  one  might  call  the  prehistoric  Cartyle 
style.  You  had  not  remembered  — 
rather,  had  not  noticed  this.  At  the  out- 
set of  the  book  you  find  sentences  of  an 
almost   flowing  symmetry  and  orderliness, 

280 


SARTOR    HI    RE  \I> 

well-nigh    balance,   quite    unlooked  for   in 

the  author  of  the  French  Revolution. 
Take  the  very  first : 

"  Considering  our  present  advanced 
state  of  culture,  and  how  t lie  Torch  of 
Science  has  now  been  brandished  and  borne 
about,  with  more  or  less  effect,  for  five 
thousand  years  and  upwards;  how,  in 
these  timc>  especially,  not  only  the  torch 
still  burns,  and  perhaps  more  fiercely  than 
ever,  but  innumerable  Rush-lights,  and 
sulphur  matches,  kindled  thereat,  are  also 
glancing  in  even-  direction,  so  that  not 
the  smallest  cranny  or  dog-hole  in  Nature 
or  Art  can  remain  unilluminated — -it 
might  strike  the  reflective  mind  with  some 
surprise  that  hitherto  little  or  nothing  of 
a  fundamental  character,  whether  in  the 
way  of  philosophy  or  history,  has  been 
written  on  the  subject  of  Clothes." 

Had  Carlyle  never  written  but  >o.  he 
would  not  have  perturbed  our  fathers  and 
grandfathers  with  such  deep  dismay,  not 
to   say   scandal,   at    his    revolutionary   as- 

281 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

saults  on  the  English  tongue.  But  as  he 
warms  to  his  work,  he  falls  into  that 
"  Babylonish  dialect  "  which  we  recognise 
for  genuine  Carlylese.  The  phrase 
cleaves  to  it  not  inaptly  for  good  no  less 
than  for  ill.  It  has  a  certain  Babylonian 
spaciousness  of  barbaric  and  primeval 
grandeur,  amazing  and  imposing,  even 
while  it  offends  a  Greek  sense  of  form 
and  clearness.  On  its  ill  side  he  has  him- 
self described  it  with  that  felicitous  and 
aloof  sense  of  self-criticism  which  some 
of  the  greatest  authors  possess  —  believing 
in  themselves  far  too  strongly  not  to  be 
capable  of  amused  laughter  at  themselves. 
"  Of  his  sentences  perhaps  not  more 
than  nine-tenths  stand  straight  on  their 
legs ;  the  remainder  are  in  quite  angular 
attitudes,  buttressed  up  by  props  (of 
parentheses  and  dashes),  and  ever  with  this 
or  the  other  tag-rag  hanging  from  them; 
a  few  even  sprawl-out  helplessly  on  all 
sides,  quite  broken-backed  and  dismem- 
bered." 

282 


SARTOB   RE-READ 

That  is  as  severe  and  true  a  criticism 
as  could  be  passed  on  the  mechanics  of 
his  style.  A  more  damaging  chargi 
the  fact  that  bis  peculiarities  are  so 
largely  imported.  The  other  day  we 
heard  a  man  disrelish  Carlyle's  >tyle  on 
the  ground  that  he  (the  speaker)  "knew 
German."  It  is  to  be  wished  that  Carl  vie 
were  less  Germanic:  the  least  tolerable 
of  mannerisms  are  foreign  mannerisms. 
But  under  this  German  vesture  the  bodj 
of  his  style  is,  after  all,  racily  English. 
His  way  is  largely  the  way  of  a  man  con- 
densing remarks  in  a  notebook,  ami  makes 
for  pregnancy.  With  all  his  juggling 
and  sword-brandishing,  Carlyle's  manner 
is  essentially  pregnant,  hieroglyphic;  his 
packed  and  gnarled  sentences,  no  less  than 
his  constant  images,  are  in  the  nature  of 
hieroglyphs;  the  mechanism  <»('  his  style 
Is  indeed  the  complement  of  its  interna] 
character,  and  both  are  labor-saving  de 
vices,  means  for  putting  much  in  a  little 
room. 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

The  great  passages  fall  on  the  ear  as 
splendidly  and  authoritatively  as  of  yore ; 
they  have  taken  no  rust  from  the  inclem- 
ency of  time.  If  here  and  there  one 
finds  a  passage  stilted,  an  all  too  deliberate 
effort  after  poetic  effects  in  prose,  the 
best  have  yet  the  unsought  eloquence  and 
elevation  of  deep  personal  feeling.  They 
roll  like  boulders  down  a  mountain  slope, 
with  rough,  thunderous  jar  and  concus- 
sion, yet  striking  out  a  harmony  in  their 
rugged  contact  beyond  the  reach  of 
shaped  and  quarried  law.  Fiery  and  fulig- 
inous (to  use  his  own  favored  word),  with 
rent  and  steaming  storm-rack  of  tur- 
moiled  imagery,  their  splendor  zig-zags 
against  a  ground  of  murky  and  jostling 
utterance,  from  which  they  emerge  and 
into  which  they  fall  back.  Or  one 
might  say  these  sudden  and  strongly 
contrasted  passages  of  eloquence  which 
fleck  the  tortured  mass  of  his  general 
speech  are  as  the  blue  eye  of  the  typhoon, 
opening  a  steady  deep  in  the  midst  of  the 

284 


SARTOR   RE-READ 

whirling     blackness     around.     Such     are 
some  of  those   fragments  in   the  "  Ever- 
lasting  Yea,"  or  the  emergence  of  Teufels 
drockh  on  the  granite  battlements  of  the 
Polar  Sea. 

But  Sartor  is  nothing  if  not  a  semi- 
prophetic  hook,  as  prophecy  goes  nowa- 
days: it  is  in  this  aspect  that  it  appeals 
to  or  repels  us;  it  is  its  gleams  and 
rifts  of  truth  that  focus  the  attention. 
For  here  also  Carlyle  is  every  way  the 
reverse  of  equable  and  self-contained, 
moving  by  stormful  and  uncertain  ener- 
gies, with  sudden  swirling  sunward  rushes, 
whence  he  swerves  with  bafHed  and  beat- 
ing pinions  to  collect  himself  for  another 
upward  dart.  His  teaching,  tempestuous 
and  fitful,  abounds  in  cloven  profundities 
of  gloom,  and  luminous  interspaces  of 
height.  By  these,  in  the  main,  we  musl 
gauge  him.  Nor  must  we  attribute  to 
him  more  than  he  claimed  for  himself,  or 
deny  his  limitations.  To  him  Christianity 
was    a    dissolved    or    dissolving    myth,    the 

285 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

spirit  of  which  survived,  awaiting  incar- 
nation in  some  new  and  modern  mythus. 
To  supply  that  reincarnation  he  addressed 
himself;  yet  in  the  main  awakened  only 
a  yearning  and  most  justified  dissatisfac- 
tion with  the  sordid  age  in  which  he  lived, 
but  failed  to  satisfy  the  yearning  he 
created.  "  Carlyle,"  said  Clough,  "  has 
led  us  all  out  into  the  wilderness  and  left 
us  there."  Many  truths  are  to  be  found 
in  him,  in  this  Sartor  above  all ;  but  Truth 
herself  shows  fiittingly  through  shifting 
vapors,  doubtful  if  she  were  seen  at  all. 
In  an  age  of  the  grossest  materiality,  no 
smug  "  scientific "  explanations  could 
loosen  his  clutch  on  the  perpetual  Pente- 
costal miracle  of  Nature.  He  saw  and 
burningly  proclaimed  her  to  be  manifestly 
wonderful  and  prophetic.  No  rational- 
ism could  shut  from  him  the  inwardness 
which  was  latent  in  all  outwardness ;  ex- 
ternality almost  ceased  for  him  in  the 
miraculous  light  which  permeated  and 
emanated    from    it.      For   this    and   things 

286 


SARTOR   RE-READ 

like    these    Sartor    is    most    thankworthy. 
The  maturer  one  is  the  more  one  discerns 

and  honors  these  penetrant  glimpses  which 
for  an  instant  make  matter  translucent. 
Y<  I  glimpses  they  are,  and  instantaneous, 
transient.  Perhaps  they  could  not  be 
otherwise  —  certainly  not  In  Carlyle. 
Cloud-tossed  and  lightning-torn  because 
himself  could  never  get  to  himself  any 
clear  account  of  what  he  knew  or  believed 
as  a  whole;  because  his  burning  intuitions 
could  never  combine  into  any  diffused 
radiance  of  system.  And  those  who 
despise  system,  be  sure,  are  those  who  can- 
not see  life  whole,  but  only  by  brief  in- 
tensity of  levin-flashes  which  leave  behind 
momentary  spaces  of  clear  vision  skirted 
by  darkness  and  "the  collied  night." 
Such  are  apt  to  confound  true  system 
with  the  iron  pedantry  which  narrows  all 
truth  within  a  brick-built  Babel,  circum- 
vallated  by  courses  of  "logic  formula?" 
—  as  Carlyle  himself  would  phrase  it. 
How  paint  to  the  sensual  eye  what   passes 

287 


« 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

in  the  Holy-of-Holies  of  Man's  Soul;  in 
what  words,  known  to  these  profane  times, 
speak  even  afar  off  of  the  unspeakable?  " 
he  asks.  Which  is  most  true ;  yet  he  who 
confines  himself  wholly  to  such  swift-dis- 
limning  adumbrations  of  partly  glimpsed 
truths,  however  super-sensual,  cannot 
claim  to  be  a  complete  teacher,  even  on  our 
mundane  and  imperfect  plane  of  complete- 
ness, where  Christ  Himself  did  not  teach 
all  things,  leaving  that  to  the  spirit  in 
each  man's  heart.  So  Carlyle  is  a  teacher 
"  as  in  a  glass  darkly,"  a  teacher  by  fits 
and  glimpses ;  from  whom  they  will  learn 
most  who  least  attempt  the  vanity  of 
systematising  him,  of  "  giving  an  ac- 
count "  of  him.  So  we  have  seen  a  photo- 
graph of  Vesuvius  in  eruption,  where  the 
tightly-defined  edges  of  the  voluming 
vapors  were  as  strenuously  false  to  the 
truth  of  nature  as  they  were  faithful  to 
the  rigid  logic  of  the  hard-eyed  camera. 
These  volcanic  Carlylean  shapes  of  truth 
you    cannot    photograph    and    reduce    to 

288 


SARTOR  RE-READ 

linear  definition,  mingled  as  they  are  with 
scoriae  showers  of  misperception  and 
even  untruth.  For  least  of  all  men  had 
this  eruptive,  prejudiced  peasant  any  in- 
fallibility. An  infallible  Scotsman  were 
too  frightful  a  portent  for  the  world  or 
his  country  to  endure.  Often,  indeed, 
would  we  fain  display  where  Carlyle  fol- 
lowed hot  and  fierce  as  any  bloodhound 
the  trail  of  truth,  and  where  he  stopped, 
suddenly  baulked,  as  by  that  magic  rock- 
door  which  shut  out  the  lame  hoy  who 
pursued  the  wake  of  the  Pied  Piper;  hut 
we  withhold.  For  our  business  here  has 
been  a  little  semi-retrospective  criticism, 
not  to  prophesy  regarding  a  partial 
prophet. 


289 


DON  QUIXOTE 

DON  QUIXOTE  for  a  paltry  two 
shillings!  That  is  the  latest  ex- 
ploit of  cheap  printing,  and  Messrs.  Bliss, 
Sands  &  Co.  are  responsible  for  it.  I 
should  hope  that  many,  like  myself,  will  be 
delighted  with  so  easy  an  opportunity  of 
renewing  a  delightful  acquaintance;  and 
those  who  have  not  yet  made  it  have  no 
excuse  now  for  delay.  I  cannot  say  I 
care  for  the  illustrations,  which  seem  to 
me  a  peculiarly  cheap  travesty  of  the 
style  of  Daniel  Vierge;  but  they  are  few, 
and  need  not  concern  the  reader.  The 
translation  is  the  old  one  of  Jarvis.  Now, 
Jarvis  was  no  master  of  style;  but  he  had 
the  inestimable  advantage  of  living  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  a  fascinating 
style  was  in  the  air,  and  consequently  he 
is  a  most  pleasant  and  stimulating  change 

291 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

from  the  featureless  style  of  the  average 
modern  novel.  I  have  spent  some  charm- 
ing hours  with  this  treasure  brought  to 
my  gate.  Was  there  ever  so  strange  a 
book  as  this  Don  Quixote!  To  what 
class  shall  we  assign  it?  Solitary,  singu- 
lar, it  will  not  be  pigeonholed;  your 
literary  entomologists  shall  ticket  it,  genus 
and  sub-genus  it,  at  their  peril.  It  is  com- 
plex beyond  measure.  It  is  a  piece  of 
literary  duplicity  without  precedent  or 
succession ;  nay,  duplicity  within  duplic- 
ity, a  sword  turning  all  ways,  like  that 
which  guarded  "  unpermitted  Eden  "  (to 
quote  a  cancelled  verse  of  Rossetti's  Love's 
Nocturne).  Let  not  Swift  say  that  he  was 
born  to  introduce  and  refine  irony.  The 
irony  of  Cervantes  is  refined  and  danger- 
ous beyond  the  irony  of  Swift;  Swift's 
is  obvious  beside  it.  All  irony  is  double- 
tongued  ;  but  whether  it  be  the  irony  of 
Swift,  or  Swift's  predecessors,  or  Swift's 
successors,  it  has  this  characteristic:  that 
its  duplicity   is   (so  to  speak)   a  one-sided 

292 


DON  QUIXOTE 

duplicity;  if  you  do  not  take  the  inner 
meaning,  you  read  baffled,  without  pleas 
lire,  without  admiration,  without  compre 
hension.  "Who  are  you  a-getting  at?" 
is  the  reader's  feeling.  But  this  strange 
irony,  this  grave  irony,  this  broadly- 
laughing  irony,  of  the  strange,  grave, 
humorous  Spaniard,  delights  even  those 
who  have  not  a  touch  of  the  ironic  in 
their  composition.  They  laugh  at  the 
comic  mask,  who  cannot  see  the  mel- 
ancholy face  behind  it.  It  is  the  Knight 
of  the  Rueful  Countenance  in  the  vizard 
of  Sancho  Pan/a  ;  and  all  laugh,  while 
some  few  have  tears  in  their  laughter. 
"  Ha !  ha !  "  guffaw  the  many  ;  "  well,  to 
be  sure,  what  an  ass  is  this  Don  Quixote, 
and  how  vastly  diverting  are  his  absurd 
doings!  I  la!  ha!"1  And  they  know  not 
that  their  derision  is  derided;  that  they 
arc  trapped  and  cozened  into  jeers;  that 
Cervantes,  from  behind  his  mask,  beholds 
their  i'.it  -witted  grins  with  a  sardonic 
smile. 

293 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

A  core  of  scornful  and  melancholy  pro- 
test, set  about  with  a  pulp  of  satire,  and 
outside  all  a  rind  of  thick  burlesque  — 
that  is  Don  Quixote.  It  never  "  laughed 
Spain's  chivalry  away."  Chivalry  was 
no  more  in  a  country  where  it  could  be 
written.  Where  it  could  be  thought  an 
impeachment  of  idealism,  idealism  had 
ceased  to  be.  Against  this  very  state  of 
things  its  secret  but  lofty  contempt  is 
aimed.  Herein  lies  its  curious  complex- 
ity. Outwardly  Cervantes  falls  in  with 
the  waxing  materialism  of  his  day,  and 
professes  to  satirise  everything  that  is 
chivalrous  and  ideal.  Behind  all  that,  is 
subtle,  suppressed,  mordant  satire  of  the 
material  spirit  in  all  its  forms:  the  clown- 
ish materialism  of  the  boor ;  the  comfort- 
able materialism  of  the  bourgeois;  the 
pedantic  materialism  of  the  scholar  and  the 
mundane  cleric ;  the  idle,  luxurious,  arro- 
gant materialism  of  the  noble  —  all  agree- 
ing in  derisive  conceit  of  superiority  to  the 
poor  madman  who  still  believes  in  grave, 

294 


DOx\  QUIXOTE 

exalted,  heroic  ideas  of  life  and  duty.  Fi- 
nally, at  the  deepmost  core  of  the  strange 
and  wonderful  satire,  in  which  the  hidden 
mockery  is  so  opposite  to  the  seeming 
mockery,  lies  a  sympathy  even  to  tears 
with  all  height  and  heroism  insulated  and 
out  of  dale,  mad  to  the  eyes  of  a  purhlind 
world:  nay,  a  hitter  confession  that  such 
nobility  is,  indeed,  mad  and  phantasmal,  in 
so  much  as  it  imputes  its  own  greatness  to 
a  petty  and  clay-content  society.  Even 
Sancho  is  held  up  to  admiration  mixed 
with  smiles,  because  he  has  the  dim  yet 
tough  insight  to  follow  what  he  does  not 
understand,  yet  obscurely  feels  to  be 
worthy  of  love  and  following.  The 
author  of  the  heroic  Nit  man  tut  a  con- 
temner of  the  lofty  and  ideal!  It  could 
not  be.  Surely  Don  Quixote  has  much 
of  the  writer's  self;  of  his  poetic  discon- 
tent with  the  earthly  and  money-seeking 
society  around  him.  There  is  no  true 
laughter  in  literature  with  such  a  hidden 
sadness  as  that  of  Cervantes. 

295 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Yet  it  is  laughter,  and  not  all  sad.  The 
man  is  a  humorist,  and  feels  that  if  the 
world  be  full  of  mournful  humor,  yet  life 
would  go  nigh  to  madness  if  there  were 
not  some  honest  laughter  as  well  —  laugh- 
ter from  the  full  lungs.  Therefore  he 
gives  us  Sancho  —  rich,  unctuous,  Shake- 
spearean humor  to  the  marrow  of  him. 
The  mockers  of  the  Don,  with  their  prac- 
tical jests  on  him,  furnish  the  understand- 
ing reader  with  but  pitying  and  half -re- 
luctant laughter;  but  the  faithful  compost 
of  fat  and  flesh  who  cleaves  to  the  meagre 
visionary  allows  us  mirth  unstinted  and 
unqualified.  Many  a  touch  in  this  crea- 
tion of  the  great  Spaniard  reminds  us  of 
like  touches  in  the  greatest  of  English- 
men. Sancho's  blunt  rejection  of  titles, 
for  example :  "  Don  does  not  belong  to 
me,  nor  ever  did  to  any  of  my  family : 
I  am  called  plain  Sancho  Panza,  my  father 
was  a  Sancho,  and  my  grandfather  a 
Sancho,  and  they  were  all  Panzas,  with- 
out   any    addition    of    Dons    or    Donnas." 

296 


DON  QUIXOTE 

Who  docs  not  remember  at  once  the 
drunken  tinker's  "What!  am  I  no!  Chris- 
topher Sly?"  &c.     The  two  passages  arc 

delightfully  kindred  in  style  and  humor. 
How  like,  too.  Is  Sancho's  meandering  tell- 
ing of  hi>  story  at  the  Duke's  table,  and 
Dame  Quickly's  narrative  style,  when  she 
recount's  Falstafi"s  promise  of  marriage! 
Unadulterated  peasant  nature  both  —  the 
>anie  in  Spain  as  in  Eastcheap.  What 
more  gloriously  characteristic  than  San- 
cho's rebut  lino-  of  the  charge  that  lie 
may  prove  ungrateful  in  advancement 
to  high  station?  "Souls  like  mine  are 
covered  four  inches  thick  with  the  grease 
of  the  old  Christian."  Bid  enough. 
With  all  the  inward  gravity  of  his 
irony,  Cervantes  has  abundantly  pro- 
vided that  we  need  not  take  lii--  serious- 
ness too  seriously:  there  is  laughter  in 
rivers,  even  for  those  who  enter  deepest 
into  that  grave  core.  We  do  not  deny 
that  he  laughs  himself  al  his  Knight,  as 
an  idealist   can   laugh  at   his   own   cxlrava- 

297 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

gances ;  and  invites  you  to  laugh  too  — 
with  the  laughter  which  does  homage  to 
what  is  laughed  at.  And  this  many-sided 
masterpiece  of  Spain  and  the  world  is  now 
at  anyone's  command  for  two  shillings ! 
"  Let  those  read  now  who  never  read  be- 
fore ;  and  those  who  always  read  now  read 
the  more." 


298 


MOESTITIAE   ENCOMIUM 

MARSH,  and  night. 
There  arc  sounds;  no  man  shall 
say  what  sounds.  There  are  shadows;  no 
in  id  shall  say  what  shadows.  There  is 
light;  were  there  not  shadow,  no  man 
should  call  it  light.  The  landscape  is  a 
sketch  blotted  in  with  smoke  of  Erebus, 
and  greys  from  the  cheek  of  death:  those 
trees  which  threaten  from  the  horizon  — 
they  are  ranked  apparitions,  no  boon  of 
gracious  God.  The  heaven  is  a  blear  copy 
of  the  land.  Athwart  the  saturnine  march, 
runs  long,  pitilessly  straight,  ghastly  with 
an  inward  pallor  (for  no  gleam  dwells  on 
it  from  the  sky),  the  leprous,  pined,  in- 
fernal watercourse;  a  water  for  the  Plu- 
tonian naiads  —  exhaling  cold  perturba- 
tion.     It  is  a  stream,  a  land,  a  heaven,  per- 

299 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

nicious  to  the  heart  of  man ;  created  only 
for  — 

The  abhorred  estate 
Of  empty  shades,  and  disembodied  elves. 

Over  this  comes  up  of  a  sudden  an  un- 
lawful moon ;  pores  wickedly  upon  all. 
My  very  heart  blanches.  But  a  voice 
which  is  not  the  voice  of  reed,  or  sedge, 
or  flag,  or  wind,  yet  is  as  the  voice  of 
each,  says :  "  Fear  not ;  it  is  I,  whom  you 
know."  I  know  her,  this  power,  that  has 
parted  from  the  side  of  Terror ;  she  is 
Sadness,  and  we  are  companions  of  old. 
Yet  not  here  am  I  most  familiar  with  her 
presence ;  far  oftener  have  I  found  her 
lurking  in  the  blocked-out,  weighty  shad- 
ows which  fall  from  the  tyrannous  sun. 
We  love  the  tyrannous  sun,  she  and  I. 

I  know  her,  for  I  am  of  the  age,  and 
the  age  is  hers.  Alas  for  this  nineteenth 
century,  by  grace  of  its  science-mongers 
"  enlightened  !  "  With  so  much  pleasure, 
and  so  little  joy;  so  much  learning,  and 

300 


MOESTITIAE   ENCOMIUM 

so  little  wisdom;  so  much  effort,  and  so 
little  fruition;  so  many  philosophers,  and 

such  little  philosophy;  so  many  seers,  and 
such  little  vision;  so  many  prophets, 
and  such  little  foresighl  ;  so  many  teachers, 
and  such  an  infinite  wild  vortex  of  doubl  ! 
Poor,  purblind,  miserable  century ;  let  it 
cease  to  call  itself  "  enlightened,"  and 
rather  own  itself,  with  all  heaviness,  in 
world-wide  Impenetrable  darkness  —  the 
saddest  of*  recorded  ages.  The  one  divine 
thing  left  to  us,  in  these  latter  days,  is  Sad- 
aess.  Even  our  virtues  take  her  stamp; 
the  int  imacy  of  our  loves  is  born  of  despair  ; 
our  very  gentleness  to  our  children  is  be- 
cause we  know  how  short  their  time. 
"  Eat,"  we  say,  "  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  ; 
for  to-morrow  —  ye  are  men." 

I  know  her;  and  praise,  knowing.  Fool- 
ishly we  shun  this  shunless  Sadness; 
fondly  we  deem  of  her  as  but  huntress  of 
men,  who  is  tender  and  the  hringer  of  ten- 
derness to  those  she  visits  with  her  fearful 
favors.      A  world   without   joy   were   more 

303 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

tolerable  than  a  world  without  sorrow. 
Without  sadness  where  were  brotherli- 
ness?  For  in  joy  is  no  brotherliness,  but 
only  a  boon-companionship.  She  is  the 
Spartan  sauce  which  gives  gust  to  the  re- 
mainder-viands of  life,  the  broken  meats 
of  love.  "  The  full  soul  loatheth  an 
honeycomb ;  but  to  the  hungry  soul  every 
bitter  thing  is  sweet."  Her  servitors  rise 
in  the  hierarchy  of  being:  to  woman,  in 
particular,  hardly  comes  the  gracious  gift 
of  sweetness,  till  her  soul  has  been  exca- 
vated by  pain.  Even  a  dog  in  sadness 
is  nearer  to  the  level  and  the  heart  of  man. 
She  has  her  dark  accolade,  her  sombre 
patents  of  nobility ;  but  the  titles  of  that 
abhorred  peerage  are  clemently  and  be- 
nignly unsuccessive.  Our  sweetest  songs 
are  from  her,  Shelley  knew ;  but  he  needed 
not  to  have  limited  the  benefaction  by 
song.  She  is  not  fair,  poor  Grief;  }ret 
in  her  gift  is  highest  fairness.  Love,  says 
Plato,  is  unbeautiful:  yet  Love  makes  all 
things  beautiful.      And  all  things  take  on 

302 


MOESTITIAE   ENCOMIUM 

beauty  which  pass  into  the  hueless  flame 
of   her   aureole.     It   may    chance   to   one 

faring  through  a  wet  grey  day-fall,  that 
suddenly  from  behind  him  spurts  the  light 
of  the  sinking  sun.  Instantly  the  far  win- 
dows of  unseen  homesteads  break  into  flash 
through  the  rain-smoke,  the  meads  run  over 
with  yellow  light,  the  scattered  trees  are 
splashed  with  saffron.  He  turns  about  to- 
wards the  fountain  of  the  spUndorous  sur- 
prise —  sees  but  a  weeping  sundown  of 
pallid  and  sickly  gold.  So  throughout  hu- 
manity my  eyes  discern  a  mourning  love- 
liness; so  I  turn  expectant  —  What,  pale 
Sorrow?  Could  all  this  have  been  indeed 
from  your  And  give  you  so  much  beauty 
thai  n<>  dower  of  it  remains  for  your  own? 
Nay,  but  my  vision  was  unversed  when  I 
disvalued  her  comeliness,  and  I  looked  not 
with  the  looking  of  her  lovers.  Nay,  but 
to  our  weak  mortality  the  extremity  of 
immitigate  beauty  is  inapprehensible  save 
through  reflection  and  dilution.  Sorrow  is 
fair  with  an  immortal   fairness,  which  we 

303 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

see  not  till  it  is  humanised  in  the  sorrow- 
ful. The  sweetest  smiles  I  know,  her  rod 
draws  forth  from  the  rock  of  an  abiding 
melancholy ;  the  faces  which  haunt  me 
from  canvas  attest  that  she  prescribed  to 
the  painter's  hand ;  of  the  most  beautiful 
among  the  sons  of  men,  it  is  recorded  that, 
though  many  had  seen  Him  weep,  no  man 
had  seen  Him  smile.  Nor  with  beauty 
end  her  gifts  to  men.  Solomon,  who 
found  in  knowledge  but  increase  of  sor- 
row, might  have  found  in  sorrow  increase 
of  knowledge :  it  is  less  wisdom  that  re- 
veals mourning,  than  mourning  that  re- 
veals wisdom  —  as  the  Indian  gathers  se- 
cret things  from  gazing  in  the  pool  of  ink. 
Power  is  the  reward  of  sadness.  It  was 
after  the  Christ  had  wept  over  Jerusalem 
that  He  uttered  some  of  His  most  august 
words ;  it  was  when  His  soul  had  been  sor- 
rowful even  unto  death,  that  His  enemies 
fell  prostrate  before  His  voice.  Who  suf- 
fers, conquers.  The  bruised  is  the  breaker. 
By  torture  the   Indians  try  their  braves ; 

sot 


MOESTITIAE  ENCOMIUM 

by  torture  Life,  too,  tries  the  elected  vic- 
tors of*  her  untriuniphal  triumphs,  and  of 
cypress  is  the  commemoration  on  their 
brows.  Sadness  the  king-maker!  morituri 
te  sulutdiit! 

Come,  therefore,  O  Sadness,  fair  and 
I  inward  and  tender;  wasp  who  follow  est 
tin-  fliers;  dolorous  coquette  of  the  Abyss, 
who  claspest  them  that  shun  thee,  with 
fierce  kisses  that  hiss  against  their  tears; 
wraith  of  the  mists  of  sighs;  mermaid  of 
the  flood  Cocytus,  of  the  waves  which  are 
salt  with  the  weeping  of  the  generations; 
most  menacing  seductress,  whose  harp  is 
stringed  with  lamentations,  whose  voice  is 
fatal  with  disastrous  prescience;  draw  me 
down,  merge  me,  under  thy  waters  of  wail! 
Of  thy  undesired  loveliness  am  I  desirous, 
for  I  have  looked  long  on  thy  countenance, 
and  can  forget  it  not,  nor  the  footfalls  of 
i!i\  majesty  which  still  shake  the  precincts 
of  my  heart:  under  the  fringed  awnings 
of  the  sunsets  thou  art  throned,  and  thy 
face  parts  the  enfolding   pavilions  of  the 

305 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Evens ;  thou  art  very  dear  to  the  heart  of 
Night ;  thou  art  mistress  of  the  things 
unmetable  which  are  dreadful  to  meted  life, 
mistress  of  the  barren  heath  and  the  barren 
soul  of  man,  mistress  of  the  weepings  of 
death  and  of  birth ;  the  cry  of  the  bride 
is  thine  and  the  pang  of  the  first  kiss,  the 
pain  which  is  mortise  to  delight,  the  flow- 
ers which  trail  between  the  ruined  chaps 
of  mortalit}',  the  over-foliaging  death 
which  checquers  all  human  suns.  Of  thy 
beauty  undesired  am  I  desirous,  for  knowl- 
edge is  with  thee,  and  dominion,  and  pierc- 
ing, and  healing;  thou  woundest  with  a 
thorn  of  light ;  thou  sittest  portress  by  the 
gates. of  hearts;  and  a  sceptred  quiet  rests 
regal  in  thine  eyes'  sepulchral  solitudes,  in 
the  tenebrous  desolations  of  thine  eyes ! 

"  The  over-foliaging  death  which  chec- 
quers all  human  suns."  Even  so.  Not 
by  Cocytus  is  delimited  her  delimitless 
realm.  For  I  have  a  vision ;  and  the  man- 
ner of  the  vision  is  this.  I  see  the  Angel 
of  life.      It  (for  it  may  be  of  either  sex) 

306 


MOESTITIAE  ENCOMIl  \J 

i-  a  mighty  grey-winged  Angel,  with 
bowed  and  hidden  face,  looking  into  the 
river  of  life.  And  sometimes  a  waver  <>i' 
sunshine  rests  upon  its  grey  wings  and 
folded  veil,  so  that  1  seem  to  see  its  face, 
and  to  sec  it  exceeding  beautiful;  and  then 
again  the  Sunlight  fades,  and  I  dare  not 
attempt  to  penetrate  that  veil,  for  I  im- 
agine the  countenance  exceeding  awful. 
And  I  see  that  within  its  sad  drapery  the 
Angel  weeps,  and  its  tears  fall  into  the 
water  of  life:  hut  whether  they  he  tears  of 
joy  or  sorrow,  only  its  Creator  knows,  not 
I.  I  have  tasted  the  water  of  life  where 
flu  tears  of  the  Angel  fell;  and  the  taste 
was  hitter  as  brine. 

Then,  say  you,  they  were  tears  of  sor- 
row ? 

The  tears  of  joy  are  salt,  as  well  as  the 
tears  of  sorrow.  And  in  that  sentence  are 
many  meanings  and  much  meaning,  which 
he  who  runs  will  not  read. 


:-:n: 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

IN    ,i    cit\     of    the    future,    among    a 
people   bearing   a   Qame   I    know    not, 
lived  Florentian  the  poet,  whose  place  was 

high  in  the  retinue  of  Fortune.  Young, 
noble,  popular,  influential,  he  had  suc- 
ceeded to  a  rich  inheritance,  and  possessed 
the  natural  gifts  which  gain  the  love  of 
women.  But  the  seductions  which  Flor- 
entian followed  were  darker  and  more  bale- 
ful than  the  seductions  of  women;  for  they 
were  the  seductions  of  knowledge  and  in- 
tellectual pride.  In  very  early  years  he 
had  passed  from  the  pursuit  of  natural  to 
the  pursuit  of  unlawful  science;  he  had 
conquered  power  where  conquest  is  dis- 
aster, and  power  servitude.  But  the  am- 
bition thus  gratified  had  elsewhere  suffered 
check.      It    was   tlu'  custom  of  this  people 

809 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

that  he  among  their  poets  who  by  uni- 
versal acclaim  outsoared  all  competitors, 
should  be  crowned  with  laurel  in  public 
ceremony.  Now  between  Florentian  and 
this  distinction  there  stood  a  rival.  Sera- 
phin  was  a  spirit  of  higher  reach  than 
Florentian,  and  the  time  was  nearing  fast 
when  even  the  slow  eyes  of  the  people  must 
be  opened  to  a  supremac}'  which  Floren- 
tian himself  acknowledged  in  his  own 
heart.  Hence  arose  in  his  lawless  soul  an 
insane  passion  ;  so  that  all  which  he  had, 
seemed  to  him  as  nothing  beside  that  which 
he  had  not,  and  the  compassing  of  this 
barred  achievement  became  to  him  the  one 
worthy  object  of  existence.  Repeated 
essay  only  proved  to  him  the  inadequacy 
of  his  native  genius,  and  he  turned  for 
aid  to  the  power  which  he  served.  Nor 
was  the  power  of  evil  slow  to  respond.  It 
promised  him  assistance  that  should  pro- 
cure him  his  heart's  desire,  but  demanded 
in  return  a  crime  before  which  oven  the 
unscrupulous      selfishness      of     Florentian 

310 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

paled.  For  he  had  sought  and  won  the 
hand  of  Aster,  daughter  to  the  Lady 
Urania,  and  the  sacrifice  demanded  from 
him  was  no  other  than  the  sacrifice  of  his 
betrothed,  the  playmate  of  his  childhood. 
The  horror  of  such  a  surest  ion  prevailed 
for  a  time  over  his  unslacked  ambition. 
Bui  he,  who  believed  himself  a  strong 
worker  of  ill,  was  in  reality  a  weak  follower 
of  it  ;  he  believed  himself  a  Vathek,  he 
was  but  a  Faust  :  continuous  pressure  and 
gradual  familiarisation  could  warp  him  to 
any  sin.  Moreover  his  love  for  Aster  had 
been  gradually  and  unconsciously  sapped 
by  the  habitual  practice  of  evil.  So  God 
smote  Florentian,  that  his  antidote  became 
to  him  his  poison,  and  love  the  regenera- 
tor love  the  destroyer.  A  strong  man,  he 
might  have  been  saved  by  love:  a  weak 
man  he  was  damned  by  it. 

The  palace  of  Florentian  was  isolated 
in  the  environs  of  the  city;  and  on  the 
night  before  his  marriage  he  stood  in 
the    room    known   to   his   domestics   as   the 

311 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Chamber  of  Statues.  Both  its  appear- 
ance, and  the  sounds  which  (his  servants 
averred)  sometimes  issued  from  it,  con- 
tributed to  secure  for  him  the  seclusion 
that  he  desired  whenever  he  sought  this 
room.  It  was  a  chamber  in  many  ways 
strongly  characteristic  of  its  owner,  a 
chamber  "  like  his  desires  lift  upwards 
and  exalt,"  but  neither  wide  nor  far-pene- 
trating; while  its  furnishing  revealed  his 
fantastic  and  somewhat  childish  fancy. 
At  the  extremity  which  faced  the  door 
there  stood,  beneath  a  crucifix,  a  small 
marble  altar,  on  which  burned  a  fire  of 
that  strange  greenish  tinge  communicated 
by  certain  salts.  Except  at  this  extrem- 
ity, the  walls  were  draped  with  deep  violet 
curtains  bordered  by  tawny  gold,  only  half 
displayed  by  the  partial  illumination  of 
the  place.  The  light  was  furnished  from 
lamps  of  colored  glass,  sparsely  hung 
along  the  length  of  the  room,  but  numer- 
ously clustered  about  the  altar:  lamps  of 
diverse    tints,    amber,    peacock-blue,    and 

812 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

changefully  mingled  harmonies  of  ^rcen 
like  the  scales  on  a  beetle's  back.  Above 
them  were  coiled  thinnesl  serpentinings  of 
suspended  crystal,  hued  like  the  tongues 
in  a  wintry  hearth,  flame-color,  violet,  and 
green;  so  that  as  in  the  heated  current 
from  the  lamps  the  snakes  twirled  and 
flickered,  and  their  bright  shadows  twirled 
upon  the  wall,  they  seemed  at  length  to 
undulate  their  twines,  and  the  whole  altar 
became  surrounded  with  a  fiery  fantasy 
of  sinuous  stains.  On  the  right  hand  side 
of  the  chamber  there  rose  —  appearing 
almost  animated  in  the  half  lustre  —  three 
statues  of  colossal  height,  painted  to  re- 
semble  life;  for  in  this  matter. Florentian 
followed  the  taste  of  the  ancient  Greeks. 
They  were  statues  of  three  poets,  and,  not 
insignificantly,  of  three  pagan  poets. 
The  two  first,  Homer  and  JSschylus, 
presented  no  singularity  beyond  their 
Titanic  proportions;  but  it  was  altogether 
otherwise  with  the  third  statue,  which  was 
unusual   iu   conception.      It   was  the  figure 

3  1 3 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

of  Virgil ;  not  the  Virgil  whom  we  know, 
but  the  Virgil  of  mediaeval  legend,  Virgil 
magician  and  poet.  It  bent  forwards  and 
downwards  towards  the  spectator;  its  head 
was  uncircled  by  any  laurel,  but  on  the 
flowing  locks  was  an  impression  as  of 
where  the  wreath  had  rested ;  its  lowered 
left  hand  proffered  the  magician's  rod, 
its  outstretched  right  poised  between  light 
finger-tips  the  wreath  of  gilded  metal 
whose  impress  seemed  to  linger  on  its  hair: 
the  action  was  as  though  it  were  about 
to  place  the  laurel  on  the  head  of  some- 
one beneath.  This  was  the  carved  em- 
bodiment of  Florentian's  fanatical  ambi- 
tion, a  perpetual  memento  of  the  double 
end  at  which  his  life  was  aimed.  On  the 
necromancer's  rod  he  could  lay  his  hand, 
but  the  laurel  of  poetic  supremacy  hung 
yet  beyond  his  reach.  The  opposite  side 
of  the  chamber  had  but  one  object  to  ar- 
rest attention :  a  curious  head  upon  a 
pedestal,  a  head  of  copper  with  a  silver 
beard,   the    features    not    unlike   those   of 

314 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

a  Pan,  and  the  tongue  protruded  as  In 
d<  rision.  This,  with  a  Large  antique 
clock,  completed  the  noticeable  garniture 
of  the  room. 

I'p  and  down  this  apartment  Florcntian 
paced  for  long,  his  countenance  expres 
sive  of  inward  struggle,  tiil  his  gaze  fell 
upon  the  figure  of  Virgil.  His  face  grew 
hard;  with  an  air  of  sudden  decision  he 
began  to  act.  Taking  from  its  place  the 
crucifix  he  threw  it  on  the  ground;  tak- 
ing from  its  pedestal  the  head  he  set  it 
on  the  altar;  and  it  seemed  to  Florcntian 
as  if  he  reared  therewith  a  demon  on  the 
altar  of  his  heart,  round  which  also  coiled 
burning  serpents.  lie  sprinkled,  in  the 
flame  which  burned  before  the  head,  some 
drops  from  a  vial;  he  wounded  his  arm, 
and  moistened  from  the  wound  the  idol's 
tongue,  and,  stepping  hack,  he  set  his  foot 
upon  the  prostrate  cross. 

A  darkness  rose  like  a  fountain  from 
the  altar,  and  curled  downward  through 
the    room    as    wine    through    water,    until 

8 1 :. 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

every  light  was  obliterated.  Then,  from 
out  the  darkness  grew  gradually  the  vis- 
age of  the  idol,  soaked  with  fire ;  its  face 
was  as  the  planet  Mars,  its  beard  as  white- 
hot  wire  that  seethed  and  crept  with  heat ; 
and  there  issued  from  the  lips  a  voice  that 
threw  Florentian  on  the  ground :  "  Whom 
seekest  thou  ?  "  Twice  was  the  question  re- 
peated ;  and  then,  as  if  the  display  of 
power  were  sufficient,  the  gloom  gathered 
up  its  edges  like  a  mantle  and  swept  in- 
wards towards  the  altar;  where  it  settled 
in  a  cloud  so  dense  as  to  eclipse  even  the 
visage  of  fire.  A  voice  came  forth  again ; 
but  a  voice  that  sounded  not  the  same ;  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  have  withered  in 
crossing  the  confines  of  existence,  and  to 
traverse  illimitable  remotenesses  beyond 
the  imagining  of  man ;  a  voice  melan- 
choly with  a  boundless  calm,  the  calm 
not  of  a  crystalline  peace  but  a  marmor- 
eal despair,  "  Knowest  thou  me ;  what  I 
am  ?  " 

316 


FINIS  COROXAT  OPUS 

Vanity    of   man!     He    who    had    fallen 
prostrate   before   this   power  now    rose   bo 

his  JVet  with  a  haughty  answer,  "  My  deity 
and  my  slave  !  " 

The  unmoved  voice  held  on  its  way. 

"  Scarce  high  enough  for  thy  deity ; 
too  high  for  thy  slave.  I  am  pain  i 
ceeding  great;  and  the  desolation  thai 
is  at  the  heart  of  things,  in  bhe  barren 
heath  and  the  barren  soul.  I  am  terror 
without  beauty,  and  force  without 
strength,  and  sin  without  delight.  I  beat 
my  wings  against  the  cope  of  Eternity, 
as  thou  thine  against  the  window  of  Time. 
Thou  knowest  me  not,  but  I  know  thee, 
Florcntian,  what  thou  art  and  what  thou 
wouldst.  Thou  wouldst  have  and  wouldst 
not  give,  thou  wouldst  not  render,  yet 
wouldst  receive.  This  cannot  be  with  me. 
Thou  art  but  half  baptized  with  my  bap 
tism,  yet  wouldst  have  thy  supreme  de- 
sire. In  thine  own  blood  thou  wast  bap- 
tized, and  I  gave  my  power  to  serve  thee; 

317 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

thou  wouldst  have  rrry  spirit  to  inspire 
thee  —  thou  must  be  baptized  in  blood 
not  thine  own !  " 

"  Any  way  but  one  way !  "  said  Floren- 
tian,   shuddering. 

"  One  way :  no  other  way.  Knowest 
thou  not  that  in  wedding  thee  to  her  thou 
givest  me  a  rival?  Thinkest  thou  my 
spirit  can  dwell  beside  her  spirit?  Thou 
must  renounce  her  or  me:  aye,  thou  wilt 
lose  not  only  all  thou  dreadest  to  sin  for, 
but  all  thou  hast  already  sinned  for. 
Render  me  her  body  for  my  temple,  and 
I  render  thee  my  spirit  to  inhabit  it.  This 
supreme  price  thou  must  pay  for  thy 
supreme  wish.  I  ask  not  her  soul.  Give 
that  to  the  God  Whom  she  serves,  give 
her  body  to  me  whom  thou  servest.  Why 
hesitate?  It  is  too  late  to  hesitate,  for 
the  time  is  at  hand  to  act.  Choose,  be- 
fore this  cloud  dissolve  which  is  now  dis- 
solving. But  remember:  thine  ambition 
thou  mightest  have  had ;  love  thou  art  too 
deep   damned  to  have." 

318 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

The  cloud   turned   from  black  to  grey. 
"  I     consent ! "     cried    Florentian,    im- 
petuously. 
It  dissolved. 

florentian's  record. 

Three  years  —  what  years!  since  I 
planted  in  a  grave  the  laurel  which  will 
soon  now  reach  its  height;  and  the  fatal 
memory  is  heavy  upon  me,  the  shadow  of 
my  laurel  is  as  the  shadow  of  funeral  yew. 
If  confession  indeed  give  ease,  I,  who  am 
deprived  of  all  other  confession,  may  yet 
find  some  appeasement  in  confessing  to 
this  paper.  I  am  not  penitent;  yet  I  will 
do  fiercest  penance.  With  the  scourge  of 
inexorable  recollection,  I  will  tear  open 
my  scars.  With  the  cuts  of  a  pitiless 
analysis  I  make  the  post-mortem  examen 
of  my  crime. 

Even  now  can  I  feel  the  passions  of 
that  moment  when  (since  the  forefated 
hour  was  not  till  midnight),  leaving  her 
under  the  influence  of  the  merciful  potion 

319 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

which  should  save  her  from  the  agony  of 
knowledge  and  me  from  the  agony  of 
knowing  that  she  knew,  I  sought,  in  the 
air  of  night  and  in  hurrying  swift- 
ness, the  resolution  of  which  she  had  de- 
prived me.  The  glow-worm  lamps  went 
out  as  I  sped  by,  the  stars  in  rainy 
pools  leaped  up  and  went  out,  too,  as  if 
both  worm  and  star  were  quenched  by 
the  shadow  of  my  passing,  until  I  stopped 
exhausted  on  the  bridge,  and  looked  down 
into  the  river.  How  dark  it  ran,  how 
deep,  how  pauseless ;  how  unruffled  by  a 
memory  of  its  ancestral  hills !  Wisely 
unruffled,  perchance.  When  it  first  danced 
down  from  its  native  source,  did  it  not 
predestine  all  the  issues  of  its  current, 
every  darkness  through  which  it  should 
flow,  every  bough  which  it  should  break, 
every  leaf  which  it  should  whirl  down  in 
its  way?  Could  it  if  it  would  revoke  its 
waters,  and  run  upward  to  the  holy  hills? 
No ;  the  first  step  includes  all  sequent 
steps;  when  I  did  my  first  evil,  I  did  also 

320 


FINIS  CO  RON  AT  OPUS 

this  evil :  years  ago  had  this  shaft  been 
Launched,  though  it  was  hut   now  curving 

to  its  mark;  years  ago  had  I  smitten  her, 
though  she  was  hut  now  staggering  to 
her  fall.  Yet  I  hesitated  to  act  who  had 
already  acted,  I  ruffled  my  current  which 
I  could  not  draw  in  !  When  at  length, 
after  long  wandering,  I  retraced  my  step-^, 
I  had  not  resolved,  I  had  recognised  that 
I  could  resolve  no  longer. 

*  *  #  #  * 

She  only  cried  three  times.     Three  times, 

0  my  God ! —  no,  not  my  God. 

#  #  *  :'  •*  # 

It  was  close  on  midnight,  and  I  fell 
her  only,  she  was  not  visible,  as  she  [ay 
at  the  feet  of  Virgil,  magician  and  poet. 
Thi'   lamp   had    fallen   from   my   hand,   and 

1  dared  imt  n  lunie  it.  I  even  placed  my- 
self between  her  and  the  light  of  the  altar, 
though  the  salt-green  fire  was  but  the 
spectre  of  a  flame.  I  reared  my  arm ; 
I     shook;    I     f'alt.red.      At.    that     moment, 

821 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

with  a   deadly   voice,  the  accomplice-hour 
gave  forth  its  sinister  command. 

I  swear  I  struck  not  the  first  blow. 
Some  violence  seized  my  hand,  and  drove 
the  poniard  down.  Whereat  she  cried; 
and  I,  frenzied,  dreading  detection,  dread- 
ing, above  all,  her  wakening,  I  struck 
again,  and  again  she  cried;  and  yet  again, 
and  yet  again  she  cried.  Then  —  her 
eyes  opened.  I  saw  them  open,  through 
the  gloom  I  saw  them ;  through  the  gloom 
they  were  revealed  to  me,  that  I  might 
see  them  to  my  hour  of  death.  An  awful 
recognition,  an  unspeakable  consciousness 
grew  slowly  into  them.  Motionless  with 
horror  they  were  fixed  on  mine,  motion- 
less with  horror  mine  were  fixed  on  them, 
as  she  wakened  into  death. 

How  long  had  I  seen  them  ?  I  saw  them 
still.  There  was  a  buzzing  in  my  brain 
as  if  a  bell  had  ceased  to  toll.  How  long 
had  it  ceased  to  toll?  I  know  not.  Has 
any  bell  been  tolling?  I  know  not.  All 
my  senses  are  resolved  into  one  sense,  and 

322 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

that  is  frozen  to  those  eyes.  Silence  now, 
at  least;  abysmal  silence;  except  the  sound 
(oris  the  sound  in  me?)  the  sound  of  drip- 
ping blood;  except  that  the  flame  upon 
the  altar  sputters,  and  hisses,  and  bickers, 
as  if  it  licked  its  jaws.  Yes,  there  is  an- 
other sound-  hush!  hark! — It  is  the 
throbbing  of  my  heart.  Not  —  no,  never 
more  the  throbbing  of  her  heart!  The 
loud  pulse  dies  slowly  away,  as  I  hope  my 
life  is  dying;  and  again  I  hear  the  lick- 
ing of  the  flame. 

A  mirror  hung  opposite  to  me,  and  for 
a  second,  in  some  mysterious  manner, 
without  ever  ceasing  to  behold  the  eyes, 
I  beheld  also  the  mirrored  flame.  The 
hideous,  green,  writhing  tongue  was 
streaked  and  flaked  with  red!  I  swooned, 
if  swoon  it  can  be  called;  swooned  to  the 
mirror,  swooned  to  all  about  me,  swooned 
to  myself,  but  swooned  not  to  those  eyes. 

Strange,  that  no  one  has  taken  me,  me 
for  such  long  hours  shackled  in  a  gaze! 
It  is  night   again,   is   it    not?     Nay,  I   re- 

323 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

member,  I  have  swooned;  what  now  stirs 
me  from  my  stupor?  Light;  the  guilty 
gloom  is  shuddering  at  the  first  sick  rays 
of  day.  Light?  not  that,  not  that;  any- 
thing but  that!  Ah!  the  horrible  traitor- 
ous light,  that  will  denounce  me  to  my- 
self, that  will  unshroud  to  me  my  dead, 
that  will  show  me  all  the  monstrous  fact ! 
I  swooned  indeed. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  It  was 
risen  from  the  ground,  and  kissed  me  with 
the  kisses  of  Its  mouth. 

****** 

They  told  me  during  the  day  that  the 
great  bell  of  the  cathedral,  though  no 
man  rang  it,  had  sounded  thrice  at  mid- 
night. It  was  not  a  fancy,  therefore, 
that  I  heard  a  bell  toll  there,  where  — 
when  she  cried  three  times.  And  they 
asked  me  jestingly  if  marriage  was  age- 
ing me  already.  I  took  a  mirror  to  find 
what  they  meant.  On  my  forehead  were 
graven  three  deep  wrinkles ;  and  in  the 
locks   which    fell    over  my    right   shoulder 

324 


FINIS  CO i;o NAT  OPUS 

I  beheld,  long  and  prominent,  three  white 
hairs.  I  carry  those  marks  to  this  hour. 
They  and  a  dark  stain  on  the  floor  at  the 
feet  of*  Virgil  are  the  sole  witnesses  to 
that  night. 

It  is  three  years,  I  have  said,  since  then; 
and  how  have  I  prospered?  Has  Tartarus 
fulfilled  its  terms  of  contract,  as  I  faith- 
fully and  frightfully  fulfilled  mine?  Yes. 
In  the  course  which  I  have  driven  through 
every  obstacle  and  every  scruple,  I  have 
followed  at  least  no  phantom-lure.  I 
have  risen  to  the  heights  of  my  aspiration, 
I  have  overtopped  my  sole  rival.  True, 
it  is  a  tinsel  renown ;  true,  Seraphin  is 
still  the  light-bearer,  I,  but  a  dragon 
vomiting  infernal  fire  and  smoke  which 
sets  the  crowd  a-gaping.  But  it  is  your 
nature  to  gape,  my  good  friend  of  the 
crowd,  and  I  would  have  you  gape  at  me. 
If  you  prefer  to  Jove  Jove's  imitator, 
what  use  to  be  Jove?  "  Gods !  "  you  cry  ; 
"what  a  clatter  of  swift-footed  steeds, 
and     clangor     of     rapid     rolling     brazen 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

wheels,  and  vibrating  glare  of  lamps ! 
Surely,  the  thunder-maned  horses  of 
heaven,  the  chariot  of  Olympus ;  and  you 
must  be  the  mighty  Thunderer  himself, 
with  the  flashing  of  his  awful  bolts ! " 
Not  so,  my  short-sighted  friend:  very 
laughably  otherwise.  It  is  but  vain  old 
Salmoneus,  gone  mad  in  Elis.  I  know 
you,  and  I  know  myself.  I  have  what  I 
would  have.  I  work  for  the  present:  let 
Seraphin  have  the  moonshine  future,  if  he 
lust  after  it.  Present  renown  means  pres- 
ent power:  it  suffices  me  that  I  am  supreme 
in  the  eyes  of  my  fellow-men.  A  year 
since  was  the  laurel  decreed  to  me,  and  a 
day  ordained  for  the  ceremony:  it  was 
only  postponed  to  the  present  year  be- 
cause of  what  they  thought  my  calamity. 
They  accounted  it  calamity,  and  knew  not 
that  it  was  deliverance.  For  my  ambition 
achieved,  the  compact  by  which  I  had 
achieved  it  ended,  and  the  demon  who  had 
inspired  forsook  me.  Discovery  was  im- 
possible.    A    death    sudden    but    natural: 

326 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPl 

how  could  men  know  that  it  was  death  of 
the  two  years  dead?  I  drew  breath  at 
length  in  freedom.  For  two  years  It  had 
spoken  to  me  with  her  lips,  used  her  g<  - 
hires  smiled  her  smile:  —  ingenuity  of 
hell! — for  two  years  the  breathing  Mur- 
der brought  before  me  and  tortured  me 
in  a  hundred  ways  with  the  living  desecra- 
tion of  her  form.  Now,  relief  unspeak- 
able! that  vindictive  sleuthhound  of  my 
sin  has  at  last  lagged  from  the  trail ;  I 
have  had  a  year  of  respite,  of  release  from 
all  torments  but  those  native  to  my  breast; 
in  four  days  I  shall  receive  the  solemn  gift 
of  what  I  already  virtually  hold;  and  now, 
surely,  1  exult  in  fruition.  If  the  ap- 
proach of  possession  brought  not  also  the 
approach  of  recollection,  if — Rest,  O 
rest,  sad  ghost!  Is  thy  grave  not  deep 
enough,  or  the  world  wide  enough,  that 
thou  must  needs  walk  the  haunted  precincts 
of  my  heart?  Are  not  spectres  there  too 
many,  without  thee? 


*-y 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

LATER    IN    THE    SAME    DAY. 

A  strange  thing  has  happened  to  me  — 
if  I  ought  not  rather  to  write  a  strange 
nothing.  After  laying  down  my  pen,  I 
rose  and  went  to  the  window.  I  felt  the 
need  of  some  distraction,  of  escaping  from 
myself.  The  day,  a  day  in  the  late  au- 
tumn, a  day  of  keen  winds  but  bright  sun- 
shine, tempted  me  out:  so  putting  on  cap 
and  mantle  I  sallied  into  the  country,  where 
winter  pitched  his  tent  on  fields  yet  red- 
dened with  the  rout  of  summer.  I  chose 
a  sheltered  lane,  whose  hedgerows,  little 
visited  by  the  gust,  still  retained  much 
verdure ;  and  I  walked  along,  gazing  with 
a  sense  of  physical  refreshment  at  the  now 
rare  green.  As  my  eyes  so  wandered,  while 
the  mind  for  a  time  let  slip  its  care,  they 
were  casually  caught  by  the  somewhat 
peculiar  trace  which  a  leaf -eating  caterpil- 
lar had  left  on  one  of  the  leaves.  I  care- 
lessly outstretched  my  hand,  plucked  from 
the   hedge   the    leaf,    and   examined   it   as 

328 


FINIS  COROXAT  OPUS 

I  strolled.  The  marking  —  a  large  mark- 
ing which  traversed  the  greater  part  of 
the  surface  —  took  the  shape  of  a  rude 
but  distinct  figure,  the  figure  l.i.  Such  a 
circumstance,  thought  I,  might  by  a  super- 
stitious man  be  given  a  personal  applica- 
tion ;  and  I  fell  idly  to  speculating  how- 
it  might  be  applied  to  myself.     Curious  ! 

—  I  stirred  uneasily;  I  felt  my  cheek  pale, 
and  a  chill  which  was  not  from  the  weather 
creep  through  me.  Three  years  since 
that;  three  strokes  —  three  cries — three 
tolls  of  the  bell  —  three  lines  on  my  brow 

—  three  white  hairs  in  my  head!  I 
laughed:  but. the  laugh  rang  false.  Then 
I  said,  "Childishness!",  threw  the  leaf 
away,  walked  on,  hesitated,  walked  back, 
picked  it  up,  walked  on  again,  looked  at 
it  again.  Then,  finding  I  could  not  laugh 
myself  out  of  the  fane}-,  I  began  to  reason 
myself  out  of  it.  Even  were  a  super- 
natural warning  probable,  a  warning  re- 
fers not  to  the  past  but  to  the  future. 
This  referred  only  to  the  past,  it  told  me 

329 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

only  what  I  knew  already.  Could  it  refer 
to  the  future?  To  the  bestowal  of  the 
laurel?  No;  that  was  four  days  hence, 
and  on  the  same  day  was  the  anniversary 
of  what  I  feared  to  name,  even  in  thought. 
Suddenly  I  stood  still,  stabbed  to  the  heart 
by  an  idea.  I  was  wrong.  The  enlaurel- 
ling  had  been  postponed  to  a  year  from 
the  day  on  which  my  supposed  affliction 
was  discovered.  Now  this,  although  it 
took  place  on  the  day  of  terrible  anniver- 
sary, was  not  known  until  the  day  ensu- 
ing. Consequently,  though  it  wanted  four 
days  to  the  bestowal  of  the  laurel,  it  lacked 
but  three  days  to  the  date  of  my  crime. 
The  chain  of  coincidence  was  complete. 
I  dropped  the  leaf  as  if  it  had  death  in  it, 
and  strove  to  evade,  by  rapid  motion  and 
thinking  of  other  things,  the  idea  which 
appalled  me.  But,  as  a  man  walking  in 
a  mist  circles  continually  to  the  point  from 
which  he  started,  so  in  whatever  direction 
I  turned  the  footsteps  of  my  mind,  they 
wandered     back     to     that     unabandonable 

330 


FINIS  CORONAT  Ol'US 

thought.  I  returned  trembling  to  the 
house. 

Of  course  it  is  nothing;  a  mere  coinci- 
dence, that  is  all.  Yes ;  a  mere  coin- 
cidence perhaps,  if  it  had  been  one 
coincidence.  IJut  when  it  is  seven  coinci- 
dences! Three  stabs,  three  cries,  three 
tolls,  three  lines,  three  hairs,  three  years, 
three  days  ;  and  on  the  very  date  when  these 
coincidences  meet,  the  key  to  them  is  put 
into  my  hands  by  the  casual  work  of  an 
insect  on  a  casual  leaf,  casually  plucked. 
This  day  alone  of  all  days  in  my  life  the 
scattered  rays  converge ;  they  are  instantly 
focussed  and  flashed  on  my  mind  by  a  leaf! 
It  may  be  a  coincidence,  only  a  coinci- 
dence ;  but  it  is  a  coincidence  at  which  my 
marrow  sets.  I  will  write  no  further  till 
the  day  comes,  lest  I  should  go  mad.  If 
by  that  time  anything  has  happened  to 
confirm  my  dread,  I  will  record  what  has 
chanced. 

One  thing  broods  over  me  with  the  op- 
pression of  certainty.      If  this  incident  be 

SSI 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

indeed  a  warning  that  but  three  days  stand 
as  barriers  between  me  and  nearing  jus- 
tice, then  doom  will  come  upon  me  at  the 
unforgettable  minute  when  it  came  on  her. 

****** 

THE    THIRD    DAY. 

It  is  an  hour  before  midnight,  and  I 
sit  in  my  room  of  statues.  I  dare  not 
sleep  if  I  could  sleep;  and  I  write,  be- 
cause the  rushing  thoughts  move  slower 
through  the  turnstile  of  expression.  I 
have  chosen  this  place  to  make  what  may 
be  my  last  vigil  and  last  notes,  partly 
from  obedience  to  an  inexplicable  yet  com- 
prehensible fascination,  partly  from  a 
deliberate  resolve.  I  would  face  the  light- 
ning of  vengeance  on  the  very  spot 
where  I  most  tempt  its  stroke,  that  if  it 
strike  not  I  may  cease  to  fear  its  striking. 
Here  then  I  sit  to  tease  with  final  question- 
ing the  Sibyl  of  my  destiny.  With  final 
questioning ;  for  never  since  the  first  shock 
have  I  ceased  to  question  her,  nor  she  to 

332 


FINIS  CO  HON  AT  OPUS 

return  me  riddling  answers.  She  unrolls 
her  volume  till  my  sight  and  heart  ache 
at  it  together.  I  have  been  struck  by  in- 
numerable deaths ;  I  have  perished  under 
a  fresh  doom  every  day,  every  hour  —  in 
these  last  hours,  every  minute.  I  write  in 
black  thought,  and  tear  as  soon  as  written, 
guess  after  guess  at  fate  till  the  floor  of 
my  brain  is  littered  with  them. 

That  the  deed  has  been  discovered  — 
that  seems  to  me  most  probable,  that  is 
the  conjecture  which  oftenest  recurs.  Ap- 
pallingly probable!  Yet  how  improbable, 
could  I  only  reason  it.  Aye,  but  I  can 
not  reason  it.  What  reason  will  be  left 
me,  if  I  survive  this  hour?  What,  indeed, 
have  I  to  do  with  reason,  or  has  reason  to 
do  with  this,  where  all  is  beyond  reason, 
where  the  very  foundation  of  my  dread 
is  unassailable  simply  because  it  is  un- 
reasonable? What  crime  can  be  interred 
so  cunningly,  but  it  will  toss  in  its  grave, 
and  tumble  the  sleeked  earth  above  it?  Or 
some   hidden   witness   may   have  beheld   me, 

883 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

or  the  prudently  kept  imprudence  of  this 
writing  may  have  encountered  some  un- 
suspected eye.  In  any  case  the  issue  is 
the  same ;  the  hour  which  struck  down  her 
will  also  strike  down  me:  I  shall  perish 
on  the  scaffold  or  at  the  stake,  unaided 
by  my  occult  powers ;  for  I  serve  a  master 
who  is  the  prince  of  cowards,  and  can  only 
fight  from  ambush.  Be  it  by  these  ways, 
or  by  any  of  the  countless  intricacies  that 
my  restless  mind  has  unravelled,  the  ven- 
geance will  come:  its  occasion  may  be  an 
accident  of  the  instant,  a  wandering  mote 
of  chance;  but  the  vengeance  is  preor- 
dained and  inevitable.  When  the  Alpine 
avalanche  is  poised  for  descent,  the  most 
trivial  cause  —  a  casual  shout  —  will  suf- 
fice to  start  the  loosened  ruin  on  its  way ; 
and  so  the  mere  echoes  of  the  clock  that 
beats  out  midnight  will  disintegrate  upon 
me  the  precipitant  wrath. 

Repent?  Nay,  nay,  it  could  not  have 
been  otherwise  than  it  was ;  the  defile  was 
closed  behind  me,  I  could  but  go  forward. 

334 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

If  I  was  merciless  to  her,  was  I  not  more 
merciless  to  myself;  could  I  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  her  life,  who  did  not  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  my  soul?  I  do  not  repent,  I  can- 
not repent;  it  is  a  tiling  for  inconsequent 
weaklings.  To  repent  jour  purposes  is 
comprehensible,  to  repent  your  deeds  most 
futile.  To  shake  the  tree,  and  then  not 
gather  the  fruit  —  a  fool's  act!  Aye,  hut 
if  the  fruit  be  not  worth  the  gathering? 
If  this  fame  was  not  worth  the  sinning 
for  —  this  fame,  with  the  multitude's  clap 
ping  hands  half-drowned  hy  the  growl  of 
wings  that  comes  in  gusts  through  the  un- 
barred gate  of  hell?  If  I  am  miserable 
with  it,  and  might  have  been  happy  with- 
out it?  With  her  without  ambition  —  yes, 
it  might  have  been.  Wife  and  child!  I 
have  more  in  my  heart  than  I  have  hitherto 
written.  I  have  an  intermittent  pang  of 
loss.  Yes,  I,  murderer,  worse  than  mur- 
derer, have  still  passions  that  are  not 
deadly,  but  tender. 

I  met  a  child  to-day ;  a  child  with  great 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

candor  of  eyes.  They  who  talk  of  chil- 
dren's instincts  are  at  fault:  she  knew  not 
that  hell  was  in  my  soul,  she  knew  only 
that  softness  was  in  my  gaze.  She  had 
been  gathering  wild  flowers,  and  offered 
them  to  me.  To  me !  to  me!  I  was  in- 
expressibly touched  and  pleased,  curiously 
touched  and  pleased.  I  spoke  to  her  gen- 
tly, and  with  open  confidence  she  began  to 
talk.  Heaven  knows  it  was  little  enough 
she  talked  of !  Commonest  common  things, 
pettiest  childish  things,  fondest  foolish 
things.  Of  her  school,  her  toys,  the  straw- 
berries in  her  garden,  her  little  brothers 
and  sisters  —  nothing  surely,  to  interest 
any  man.  Yet  I  listened  enchanted.  How 
simple  it  all  was ;  how  strange,  how  won- 
derful, how  sweet !  And  she  knew  not  that 
my  eyes  were  anhungered  of  her,  she  knew 
not  that  my  ears  were  gluttonous  of  her 
speech,  she  could  not  have  understood  it 
had  I  told  her;  none  could,  none.  For  all 
this  exquisiteness  is  among  the  common- 
places of  life  to  other  men  like  the  raiment 

336 


FINIS  CORON'AT  OPUS 

they  indue  at  rising,  like  the  bread  they 
weary  of  eating,  like  the  daisies  they 
trample  under  blind  feet;  knowing  not 
what  raiment  is  to  him  who  has  felt  the 
ravening  wind,  knowing  not  what  bread  is 
to  him  who  has  lacked  all  bread,  knowing 
not  what  daisies  are  to  him  whose  feet  have 
wandered  in  grime.  How  can  these  elves 
be  to  such  a  man  what  they  are  to  me,  who 
am  damned  to  the  eternal  loss  of  them? 
Why  was  I  never  told  that  the  laurel  could 
soothe  no  hunger,  that  the  laurel  could 
staunch  no  pang,  that  the  laurel  could  re- 
turn no  kiss?  But  needed  I  to  be  told  it, 
did  I  not  know  it?  Yes,  my  brain  knew 
it,  my  heart  knew  it  not.     And  now  — . 

HALF-PAST    ELEVEN. 

O  lente,  lente  currite,  noctis  equi ! 

Just !  they  are  the  words  of  that  other 
trafficker  in  his  own  soul.1  Me,  like  him, 
the   time   tracks    swiftly    down ;    I    can    flv 

1  Faust  us,  in  the  last  scene  of  Marlowe's  play. 
337 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

no  farther,  I  fall  exhausted,  the  fanged 
hour  fastens  on  my  throat:  they  will  break 
into  the  room,  my  guilt  will  burst  its  grave 
and  point  at  me ;  I  shall  be  seized,  I  shall 
be  condemned,  I  shall  be  executed;  I  shall 
be  no  longer  I,  but  a  nameless  lump  on 
which  they  pasture  worms.  Or  perhaps 
the  hour  will  herald  some  yet  worser  thing, 
some  sudden  death,  some  undreamable, 
ghastly  surprise  —  ah  1  what  is  that  at  the 
door  there,  that,  that  with  her  eyes? 
Nothing:  the  door  is  shut.  Surely,  surely, 
I  am  not  to  die  now  ?  Destiny  steals  upon 
a  man  asleep  or  off  his  guard,  not  when  he 
is  awake,  as  I  am  awake,  at  watch,  as  I 
am  at  watch,  wide-eyed,  vigilant,  alert. 
Oh,  miserable  hope!  Watch  the  eaves  of 
your  house,  to  bar  the  melting  of  the  snow ; 
or  guard  the  gateways  of  the  clouds,  to  bar 
the  f orthgoing  of  the  lightning ;  or  guard 
the  four  quarters  of  the  heavens,  to  bar 
the  way  of  the  winds:  but  what  prescient 
hand  can  close  the  Hecatompylae  of  fate, 
what  might  arrest  the  hurrying  retribu- 

338 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

tions  whose  multitudinous  tramplings  con- 
verge upon  me  in  a  hundred  presages,  in 
a  hundred  shrivelling  menaces,  down  all 
the  echoing  avenues  of  doom?  It  is  but 
a  question  of  which  shall  arrive  the  fleet- 
est and  the  first.  I  cease  to  think.  I  am 
all  a  waiting  and  a  fear,      twelve! 

AT    HALF-PAST    TWO. 

Midnight  is  stricken,  and  I  am  un- 
stricken.  Guilt,  indeed,  makes  babies  of 
the  wisest.  My  very  ink  must  blush  to 
make  the  record  —  nothing  happened  ;  ab- 
solutely nothing.  For  two  hours  I 
watched  with  lessening  expectance:  still 
nothing.  I  laughed  aloud  between  sud- 
den light-heartedness  and  scorn.  Inef- 
fable fool  that  I  was,  I  had  conjured  up 
death,  judgment,  doom  —  heaven  knows 
what,  all  because  a  caterpillar  had 
crawled  along  a  leaf !  And  then,  as  I 
might  have  done  before  had  not  terror 
vitiated  my  reason,  I  made  essay  whether 
I    still    retained    my    power.      I    retain    it. 

•9 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Let  me  set  down  for  my  enhardiment  what 
the  oracle  replied  to  my  questioning. 

"  Have  I  not  promised  and  kept  my 
promise,  shall  I  not  promise  and  keep? 
You  would  be  crowned  and  you  shall  be 
crowned.  Does  your  way  to  achievement 
lie  through  misery  ?  —  is  not  that  the  way 
to  all  worth  the  achieving?  Are  not  half 
the  mill-wheels  of  the  world  turned  by 
waters  of  pain?  Mountain  summit  that 
would  rise  into  the  clouds,  can  you  not 
suffer  the  eternal  snows?  If  your  heart 
fail  you,  turn ;  I  chain  you  not.  I  will 
restore  you  your  oath.  I  will  cancel  your 
bond.  Go  to  the  God  Who  has  tenderness 
for  such  weaklings :  my  service  requires 
the  strong." 

What  a  slave  of  my  fancy  was  I!  Ex- 
cellent fool !  what,  pay  the  forfeit  of  my 
sin  and  forego  the  recompense,  recoil  from 
the  very  gates  of  conquest?  I  fear  no 
longer:  the  crisis  is  past,  the  day  of  prom- 
ise has  begun,  I  go  forward  to  my  destiny ; 
I  triumph. 

840 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

Florentian  laid  down  the  pen,  and 
passed  into  dreams.  lie  saw  the  crowd, 
the  throne,  the  waiting  laurel,  the  sun- 
shine, the  flashing  of  rich  robes;  he  heard 
the  universal  ^hout  of  acclaim,  he  felt  the 
thi-di  of  intoxicating  pride.  lie  rose,  his 
form  dilating  with  exultation,  and  passed, 
lamp  in  hand,  to  the  foot  of  the  third 
statue.  The  colossal  figure  leaned  above 
him  with  its  outstretched  laurel,  its  prof- 
fered wand,  its  melancholy  face  and  flow- 
ing hair;  so  lifelike  was  it  that  in  the  wav- 
ering flame  of  the  lamp  the  laurel  seemed 
to  move.  "  At  length,  Virgil,"  said  Flor- 
entian, "  at  length  I  am  equal  with  you ; 
equal  with  you  in  power,  equal  with  you 
in  renown  ;  Virgil,  magician  and  poet,  your 
crown  shall  descend  on  me!" 

One!  Two!  Three!  The  strokes  of 
the  great  clock  shook  the  chamber,  shook 
the  statues;  and  after  the  strokes  had 
ceased,  the  echoes  were  still  prolonged. 
Was  it  only  an  echo? 

Boom! 

141 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

Or  —  was  it  the  cathedral  bell? 

Boom ! 

It  was  the  cathedral-bell.  Yet  a  third 
time,  sombre,  surly,  ominous  as  the  bay 
of  a  nearing  bloodhound,  the  sound  came 
down  the  wind. 

Boom ! 

Horror  clutched  his  heart.  He  looked 
up  at  the  statue.  He  turned  to  fly.  But 
a  few  hairs,  tangled  round  the  lowered 
wand,  for  a  single  instant  held  him  like  a 
cord.  He  knew,  without  seeing,  that  they 
were  the  three  white  hairs. 

•  •  •  •  • 

When,  later  in  the  day,  a  deputation  of 
officials  came  to  escort  Florentian  to  the 
place  fixed  for  his  coronation,  they  were 
informed  that  he  had  been  all  night  in  his 
Chamber  of  Statues,  nor  had  he  yet  made 
his  appearance.  They  waited  while  the 
servant  left  to  fetch  him.  The  man  was 
away  some  time,  and  they  talked  gaily  as 
they  waited:  a  bird  beat  its  wings  at  the 
window;  through  the  open  door  came  in  a 

342 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

stream  of  sunlight,  and  the  fragmentary 
song  of  a  young  girl  passing: 

Oh,   sync   she    tripped,   and    sync    she   ran 

(The  water-lily's  a  lightsome  flower), 
All  for  jo\    and   sunshine   weather 
The  lily  and  Marjorie  danced  together, 
As  he  came  down  from   Langley  Tower. 

There's  a  blackbird  sits  on  Langley  Tower, 
And  a  throstle  on   Glenlindy's  tre<  ; 

The  throstle  sings  "  Robin,  my  heart's  lov.  ! 
And   the   blackbird,   "  Bonnie,   sweet   Mar- 
j  one ! 

The  man  came  running  back  at  last, 
with  a  blanched  face  and  a  hushed  voice. 
"  Come,"  lie  said,  "  and  see!" 

They   went   and  saw. 

At  the  feet  of  Virgil's  statue  Floren- 
tian  lay  dead.  A  dark  pool  almost  bid 
that  dark  stain  on  the  ground,  the  three 
lines  on  bis  forehead  were  etched  in  blood, 
and  across  the  shattered  brow  lay  a  pon- 
d(  rous  gilded  wreath  ;  while  over  the  extin- 


A  RENEGADE  POET 

guished  altar-fire  the  idol  seemed  to  quiver 
its  derisive  tongue. 

"  He  is  already  laurelled,"  said  one, 
breaking  at  length  the  silence ;  "  we  come 
too  late." 

Too  late.  The  crown  of  Virgil,  magi- 
cian and  poet,  had  descended  on  him. 


THE    END 


344- 


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The  Religion  of  the  Future.  By  Charles  W.  Eliot,  President 
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Beyond  the  Borderline  of  Life.  By  Gustavus  Myers.  A  com- 
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The  Immortality  of  the  Soul.  By  Sir  Oliver  Lodge.  While  its 
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How  I  Know  That  the  Dead  Return.  By  William  T.  Stead. 
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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
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ED 


RECEIVE 
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